


AMS One-Shotober Challenge!

by PhaedraZev



Category: American Murder Song - Various (Album)
Genre: 1940s, American History, Cunnilingus, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, Murder Ballads of 1816: The Year Without a Summer, Murderers, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Song Lyrics, Songwriting, oneshotober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 20,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26762179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhaedraZev/pseuds/PhaedraZev
Summary: A collection of one-shots based on an Inktober challenge for American Murder Song.
Relationships: John Fisher (1791-1820)/Pretty Lavinia (American Murder Song), Sweet Rosalie/OC
Kudos: 5





	1. A Compass Pointing West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Messrs Storm and Tender encounter problems on their first day as Blood Travelers.

On a black night void of moon or stars two travelers slowed their wagon to an agonizing halt. A silent truth engulfed them like the dark maw of a trickster god.

“I think we’re lost.” Storm admitted aloud.

“Really?” Tender drolled. “What gave it away?”

They each eyed the sign ahead of them.  **Welcome to Evansham, Virginia** , a sentiment less than salutary when one's' destination is the soon-to-be Indiana.

Storm huffed a breath, a hand raking through his curls while the other allowed the torch to droop. “I don’t get it. We turned West at the crossroads, didn’t we?” 

“I’m sure we did.” Tender pulled out the compass and gave it a gander. It was an odd little thing. A hexagonal box -gifted by Cain before their departure- with six markers instead of the normal four. With the loss of daylight Tender hadn’t a chance to look at the two additional markers before they left, he simply looked at the arrow and guided the horses accordingly. With hope they would have made it to Lexington for a night’s rest, but it seems that that plan was thoroughly quashed. Dismissing the thought he looked at the compass again. The arrow pointed to his right, as it should. “We’re heading West. At least, that’s what this says.”

“Just great.” Storm leaned back against the wagon, eyes rolling to the sky. “Head out on our first job, and Cain gives us a broken compass!”

Tender nodded to his friend’s frustration. Still, he mistrusted the notion that an ancient force like Cain would give them an object so obviously damaged. While Storm looked to the heavens, Tender focused his gaze on the compass. He took the torch from his friend and brought it downward, hoping to get a clearer view of the inscriptions. It took a moment to notice the source of the problem, and several more to decipher the rationale behind it.

“Storm, remind me, what were Cain’s  _ exact _ instructions before we left?”

Without missing a beat, the man answered. “Follow the compass, head West to Corydon, await further instructions.”

That cinched it. Tender did what he could to restrain his sense of disbelief, yet an air of disappointed sanity still left him. “I think this compass is  _ meant _ to point West.” Hearing a shift, he noticed Storm turn his full attention, and confusion, towards him. “The arrow, it’s been pointing in the direction we need to go, that’s what Cain meant by follow the compass.”

Storm closed his eyes, his hands folding against his face as if in prayer. The frustrated breath that left him, though, proved it to be anything but. “We’ve sold our souls to a madwoman!”

Tender couldn’t help but chuckle at the exclamation. Still, having found the problem and knowing that they were behind schedule, he re-took the reins and guided the horses back around to the right direction.

“I’m serious, Tender! What have we gotten ourselves into? Magical compasses, demonic horses, you realize it’s only going to get madder from here, don’t you?”

“More than likely.” Tender admitted, a quirk of a smile teased at his compatriot. “But at least we have an eternity to get used to it.” 

Storm groaned loudly in protest. “Don’t remind me! ...I’m going to rest. Maybe when I wake up this madness will end!”

Shaking his head, Tender hid his mirth over the exasperated notion. Instead, he turned his attention back to the compass, watching as the wagon slowly turned to match alignment with it’s arrow. Now westward, he mind drifted back to Storm’s comments about their new way of life. The man was right, to be sure. Still, like this strange compass before him, Tender hoped the future will have a clearer, more purposeful venture than the life he left behind. 


	2. The Blood Travelers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Messrs Storm and Tender head home from their latest tale and are reminded what it means to be a Blood Traveler.

After a jaunt through the Chicago World Fair of 1893 (inspiring tales from a particular triple-alliterated gentleman), Mister Storm and Mister Tender rolled their wagon back to Killing Place. The wagon parked and the horses stabled, they made their way inside, heading straight to the bar.

“Ah, home sweet home!” Storm cheered. Weaving past the batwing doors, he ducked low across the counter to peruse the bar’s selection. 

“That excited to be back?” Tender asked with a bemused smile. “The trip wasn’t that bad.”

“That may be true, Mister Tender; but unlike that overpriced fair,” he popped upright, clinking a bottle and two shot glasses onto the counter, “the drinks here are free!”

“Ha! You make a good case, Mister Storm!” Sitting himself at the bar, Tender waited as his friend poured two shots. When ready, the two Blood Travelers lifted their drinks to toast. “To another successful venture.” 

“To bloody tales and neat whiskey.” Storm added. With a clink, they downed their drinks and readied for another shot. 

As they did so, another figure entered the room. The figure was a youthful lad with a long, sullen face and a sallow complexion, though all who dwell in the Killing Place knew that it would be false to describe him as _young._ In fact, the seemingly teenaged boy known as Edward is centuries -possibly millennia- old, and a well-acquainted fixture of the Killing Place. Making his own way to the bar, the ancient teen couldn’t help but stop and gape at the younger Travelers.

Incredulous, he quirked a brow at Mister Tender. “Tender, why are you wearing a wig?”

Storm sputtered and coughed in an attempt to hold back laughter. Tender, on the other hand, simply frowned at Edward. “I’m not.”

“Oh?” Edward grew ponderous at the reply. “So the curse turned your hair yellow, then?”

At that inquiry, Storm laughed loudly. Try as he might, Tender could only glare at each man one at a time. “No, it did _not_ turn it yellow. I bleached my hair.” 

“Why?” Edward grimaced.

Tender rolled his eyes at the man’s reaction. Bad enough to be reminded of the hair-loss curse he endured the year prior; but to have Storm ribbing at him all week since the change and now _Edward_ of all people on his case about it was putting him over the edge of his patience. “Because maybe, just maybe, if I’m going to live forever I might as well try something different on occasion.” He punctuated the remark by downing his shot, hoping that to be the end of it.

“Careful now,” Storm teased, “talk like that is what got you cursed in the first place.”

“Really?” Tender asked sarcastically. “Here I thought it’s because The Interrogator’s a sadistic bitch.”

“That, too.” Storm tittered.

Edward rolled his eyes at the exchange. “You’re _both_ fools risking talk like that.”

“I don’t see the crime in changing my look once in a while.” Tender insisted. “Be honest, don’t you ever want to look like something other than some kid whose balls just dropped?”

The room chilled.

A phantom gust filled the space as though it opened to an arctic breeze. It grew so frigid that the air seemed to freeze in the drinkers’ lungs. At the center of it all, Edward glowered at them coldly. “Watch yourself, Tender. Your need for change is nothing but a desperate cling to what you used to be. Change is for the living, the living who die and rot and change into the earth. But we aren’t living, eternal, Tender, we simply _are_ . We are unliving, undying, same as we were when Cain took us in. _That’s_ what it means to be a Blood Traveler, Tender. Never forget it.” With that final scoff, Edward turned and left the room, taking the chill with him. 

It seemed an age before either of them found their voice again. “I think,” Storm began quietly, “we need to make it a rule to not piss off the old timers whenever we’re home.”

Tender shuddered slightly to shake off the former cold. “I think I just need another drink.”

“Hear, hear.” Storm poured out the third round. He raised a toast, though this one was less exuberant than the first. “To home, sweet home.”

Tender raised his own, half-heartedly, and clinked the shots together. “To Blood Travelers, eternal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I ever needed proof that I'm an angst writer, it's writing what was INTENDED to be a fluff story about hair styles and ending it on a frigid note. Maybe I'll succeed at fluff another time.


	3. Pretty Lavinia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty Lavinia Fisher finds herself a bank note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't have a chance to write today until 10:30pm, and here I am with 10 minutes to spare!

Lavinia eyed the latest slew of travelers with keen interest. Carriage drivers passing through in the morning had mentioned a ship pulling in soon from the West Indies. With it came the promise of traders and spice peddlers, the right sort of people she hoped to  _ retire _ at the Inn for the night. When the ship's travelers made their way into the establishment Lavinia made quick work settling each of them with generous portions of food and smiles alike. A gentle rally of chatter with each of them gave her a chance to measure up each man's potential. Who's here alone? Who's moods are the lightest? Who's pockets the heaviest? 

She delivered a drink to another patron, a man on the cusp of losing his youth-time muscle to fat, and offered him a dazzling smile. "Right you are, sir! Our rum special. I suppose it's not quite like what you experienced on the islands?" 

Her smile grew teasing as the man sniffed the drink and gave it a taste. He smiled, to her satisfaction. "Ahh! This is quite a unique mix. What do you do to make it 'special'?"

"Oh, that's a house secret." She winked. "I need to be more acquainted with someone before I can give it out, Mister…?"

"Akin." He smiled jovially. "Pearl Akin." 

The strange name threw her. Luckily she tamped down enough on her emotions to turn her desire to laugh at him into a girlish giggle. It worked in her favour as the man's smile grew teasing before he added. "I know. A strange name, isn't it? It's Peter, actually, but no one's called me that in an age."

"That so? And how does a gentleman find himself so thoroughly renamed?"

Akin leaned into his seat, taking on an air of story-telling charm. "Well, a name like that first makes its mark when you find the biggest pearl on the Tennessee," his expression at once went smug, "and is cemented when you use it to buy out the old man's enterprise."

Her eyes grew wide. She didn't even need to fake interest in that reveal. "Really?" Her voice was breathless and eager. "Now  _ that _ is a way to make a name for yourself!"

“That it is.” He nodded. 

Her attention flitted briefly, a decision made at once. “I’d love to hear more about it. Tell you what, I have to serve a few tables for now, but I’d love to fix you up a nice meal and learn more about you and your  _ large pearls. _ ” She ended the final two words salaciously, allowing her eyes to drift low to his crotch, then back to his eyes as they lit up in lustful understanding. 

“I think I’d like that very much, Miss-?”

“Lavinia.” She replied. Leaning in close, she battled her pretty eyelashes as her voice purred. “I can hardly wait.” 

* * *

Several hours later Lavinia and her husband, John, thrust a long, wrapped sheet onto a random fish cart they found close to town. 

“He was a right bastard, anyways.” John grunted, dusting his hands at the disposal. He turned to his wife, eyes flashing with concern over the bloody state of her clothes. “Are you alright?”

She shuddered slightly, but gave a reassuring nod. “I’ll be fine.” She looked back at the heap with withering anger. “I’d have been happier if he’d just drunk the tea instead of pushing straight onto me like some coked up whore. At least I was able to grab a knife off the table before he could start.”

“All the more grateful for it.” He agreed. He made to walk away, but Lavinia stopped him. Instead, she grabbed for a sack of salt from inside the cart and unwrapped the sheet. “What are you doing?!” He asked, alarmed. “We need to keep him covered.”

“It’ll only take a second.” She eyed the body of Pearl Akin with disgust. Then, she picked up a handful of salt and poured it over his cock and balls until they were whiter than the moon. “Here’s some  _ large pearls _ to remember you by, you sack of shit.” 

She dusted her hands off with a satisfied pat, then covered the sheet again, leaving Akin and his pearls to the mercy of the gossipers of Charleston. 


	4. The Interrogator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into the making (and breaking) of a Blood Traveler.

_*Click-click*_

Thirty bodies dropped like flies.

Thirty bodies bent on their knees with heads bowed low in submission. All in perfect unison. A first, for this lot. 

The Interrogator graced their obedience with a smile, though none would ever know it. She walked slowly down the line of kneeling, nameless souls, her heels clicking with each step.

“Subjects, today each of you will be tasked in the year of 1942. You will watch. You will learn. Should you survive, you will report on the bloodshed you observe. Should you die…” She chuckled lightly. Some of the bodies tensed at the sound, delighting her all the more in their fear.

“To be a Subject of Cain is to know which stories to watch, which stories are worth telling. Your instincts will guide you as you move through the year, to find those that will soon bear the Mark. You will also be tested in the way that the story is spun. To entrance your audience with a silver tongue, gripping them to the tale with teeth as sharp as the mouth of a gun-” 

A short snort of laughter entered the line. The Interrogator halted in her speech, turning behind her to find the culprit. Most of the bodies went frozen stiff, but there was one who seemed hunched, as if to hide his mistake. She walked over to the hunched man, catching his shiver as the ousting dawned on him. The Interrogator observed the man a moment, hoping to see an expression of fear on his face, but finding it obscured by a mass of curls. 

“What are you, Subject?” She asked.

“...Twenty-One, Ma’am.” He answered obediently. 

“Twenty-One.” She repeated. “And what has you so amused that you would interrupt me?”

There was a pause before an answer came. The souls learned early on that certain replies resulted in severe punishment. _Nothing, I’m sorry_ , those are the words of dismissal, of hidden truths; and no truth is dare hidden from The Interrogator.

“The lines rhymed, Ma’am. I- I thought that was funny.”

A silence stretched between them. Rhymes are a useful tool in storytelling, it takes a clever wit to catch them in the wild. Not that any here needed to know that this one was sown to the field. Though perhaps she ought to reward this one for catching its harvest?

_*WHACK!*_

Striking true at his temple, her baton knocked the subject to the floor. He groaned in pain, but it was short lived. Once he realized that there were no more strikes to be had, the man moved back onto his knees.

She re-holstered the weapon and continued down the line. “Should you fail,” she continued as though no break had occurred, “you will be brought back to your time, and your timely end. Should you succeed, you will be one step closer to receiving a Mark and a name.”

Coming to the end of the line, she turned back to survey the souls. 

_*Click-click*_

The bodies rose to their feet. Most moved in unison, though the one she had beaten stumbled, wincing in his step. “You will report back here in 30 minutes to receive your aliases and depart. Once the test begins there is no turning back. Dismissed!”

The group scurried at once to get ready or get away. Either way it made no difference. The next test is set to begin. Only those with potential will survive, and The Interrogator will stand in judgement to determine their fate.


	5. Five Sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five of the Forlorn Hope converse by a fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think this will be anything like the song "The Five Sisters" _oh-ho-ho_ you have not been paying attention to my writing style!

On a frigid night, in the middle of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, four women sat quiet and shivering around a crackling fire.

“It’s Epiphany today.” Amanda McCutchen muttered absentmindedly, her gaze locked onto the low flames.

“Perhaps three wise men will find us and give us something to eat other than snowshoes?” Sarah Foster muttered low with sarcastic dejection.

Her sister, Harriet Pike, huffed lightly, her eyes glancing in the distance to where Williams’ Foster and Eddy were speaking quietly to one another. “Well, if your husband has his way there will certainly be three men come morning.”

The other women shifted uncomfortably at the remark. They already heard William muse about the Miwok guides as they all nibbled at their oxbow leathers. True, they were ungodly savages, but it seemed …unpleasant, what Mr. Foster was suggesting. Fortunately, none had need to comment on Harriet’s remark, as Sarah Fosdick came to rejoin their circle. Her arrival gave Mary Ann Graves an opportunity to change the subject. “How is Jay fairing?”

The woman shook her head. “Not well.” She sat next to Mary Ann, huddling close to her sister as had become often since their father died on this accursed expedition. “He’s always been a strong man... seeing him like this, I can’t bear it!” Mary Ann hugged her sister tightly, hoping to give the woman some measure of comfort and warmth.

They’ve known so much pain since their travels began.  _ All of them _ have suffered in some shape or form. This latest venture had been their hope for food and rescue; yet one by one the men fell. Some to cold, some to starvation, poor Dolan had gone completely mad before he, too, fell. What had started as a trail to hope has decayed into a trial of death and despair. 

_ Which one of them will be next?  _

It was a thought that has plagued Amanda for days, now. Of the five women in this circle, she was the only one whose family has so far escaped death. Well, she was hopeful for it, anyways. Bill had gone ahead to Sutter’s Ford months ago, and she hasn’t heard from him since; and her precious babe, Harriet… she could only pray that the Graves’ would keep her safe. Yet she was the only one here whose family has escaped death. How long will it be until her luck runs out?

A wind rustled, bringing with it the chill of the night. Amanda looked up to the Heavens, hoping to find a guiding star as the wise men had done for her Lord. She prayed quietly to the Heavens. Prayed that no more would fall, prayed that their hopes would not be in vain, and -with all her heart- prayed to be reunited with her beloved Bill and Harriet once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be more depressing, baby Harriet died a month later. Yeah, no way this was going to be nice story.


	6. Six Merry Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How would you describe this story Mister Tender?”  
> “Pandemonium, Mister Storm. Complete, unadulterated pandemonium.”

_August 13th, 1816_

“How would you describe this story Mister Tender?”

“Pandemonium, Mister Storm. Complete, unadulterated pandemonium.”

* * *

_*Four hours earlier*_

Messrs Storm and Tender hunkered down at the nearest bar they could find. Well, this random hovel in the middle of the New Hampshire countryside was more a shed than a bar, but it had whiskey so it would have to do.

“You think we’ll find any stories here?” Tender asked. “There’s not much of anybody around here beyond some stray locals.”

“Trust me on this, Mister Tender.” Storm assured. “With how the weather was warm all week, a Mark here is inevitable.”

The thought gave the other man something to consider. “Alright then, let’s see how the night goes.”

It took about an hour before any change came along. At the door to the bar a blast of cold, wintery wind came through, blowing in a half-dozen men inside. The number of men was in truth a surprise since it more than doubled the number of people at the shed. Though that surprise was pushed further once the Blood Travelers took stock of the new patrons. Three of the men were uniformed law enforcement. The other three, well, their bound hands suggested the opposite. The first of the bound was tall and sunkissed, though didn’t seem to react much to the cold. In fact, the man seemed rather shut-in. The second man seemed the opposite. Older, shorter, possibly frail -unless the twitches as his head swiveled were due to something other than age. His gaze seemed everywhere and yet unattached all at once. The third of them seemed the most sound. A lean build and of average height, the brown-haired man seemed almost relaxed despite his binds. In fact, as the six shuffled in, he was the first of the lot to speak.

“Hey, barkeep! Bring us a barrel of your best brandy!”

One of the three guards pulled the man roughly backwards. “I ain’t paying to waste good drink on a dead man, Madison.”

“Whatever you say, chief. Barkeep! Bring a barrel of whatever you got. This dead man’s got a thirst!”

Viewing the scene unfold, Tender and Storm glanced at each other briefly. Just long enough for Storm to grin and mutter “told you so” before they continued into the night. The group of six sat at the table for a good two hours. One by one their glasses emptied. One by one the men began to loosen up. In truth, it seemed that guards and prisoners alike were enjoying the drinks (and company) as the night wore on. The good mood continued to string high ...that is, until the barrel went empty.

Displeased with the result, the man named Madison pushed himself away from the table and harried the barkeep for another barrel. “You boys have drunk enough.” The man insisted. “Beds have already been laid upstairs. Go sleep it off.”

Madison lunged for the man, stumbling, his arms hung over the bar. “Now you listen, here! In four days time those bastards in Concord are making me sleep forever. So you can take your beds and shove them up your ass! I’m getting a drink!”

“Alright, Madison,” a guard slurred. He walked over to pull the man upright. “You heard the man, let’s get ourselves down for the nigh-”

Before anyone could process it, the guard was on the floor, writhing in agony. Above him stood Madison, his hands loose and red with blood and brown from a knife handle. With a grin, he looked back at the table. “You heard the man, Levi! Lay ‘em down for the night!” At once he threw the long knife at the table. Miraculously, it didn’t hit anyone. Instead, the older convict snatched the knife up and sliced at another one of the guards. The knife went so deep that the arm half-dangled and sprayed with blood.

Chaos unfurled around them. The third convict seemed to be fighting defensively around the third guard. Madison ended up fighting the guard he stabbed, who was managing pretty well despite the wound. Levi, took a different approach. With a strength no one would have guessed, he ripped off the arm of the slashed guard! Shoving him to the ground, Levi then dug his teeth into the man's flesh, as if scalping him with his chipped incisors. Meanwhile, Madison began to lose the upper hand. Grabbing a piece of rope, the stabbed guard was able to wrap it around Madison’s neck, turning his face a painful shade of red. Then the red went further as the third convict (who managed to knock over the other guard at some point) used Levi’s knife to stab the guard in the side. 

As the guard fell over, Madison gasped for breath. In another breath he grinned at the tall man. “Nice one, Dan!” The third man, Dan, didn’t react to the praise. Instead he looked at the knife with a strike of horror. Madison, though, was having none of that. Instead he grabbed a pint from the bar and shoved it into Dan’s hand. “Drink up, you earned it. Maybe wet your boot on his chest for good measure.” Taking his own advice, he kicked the guard hard, spattering the blood further. 

Then, with a swig of his own now-acquired drink, he ran back into the frenzy. Seeing Levi having his own ‘fill’ of the slashed guard, Madison turned his attention to the third guard. Catching his eye, the guard shook his head in panic. “No! No, please! Good Lord, I don’t want to die!” Try as he might, his prayers fell to deaf ears. Madison grabbed the man by his collar and dragged him across the room. Spying a mounted elk head on the wall, his eyes gleamed in delight. Using all his strength, he hoisted the man up, shoving him hard onto the elk’s antlers. The guard screamed as he was pierced roughly, wailing in agony as he was shoved deeper into the wall. The more he screamed, though, Madison’s mood seemed to darken. “Shut up, you!” He punched the man in the side, but that hardly lessened his cries. 

Finding a dulling to his enjoyment, he turned across the room. “Hey, Levi, you want a turn on this one?”

“Ehehehehe!” The man laughed. “Oh, I’ll have a turn, alright. One for each knife!” He leapt off the slashed guard in delight. Grabbing a set of knives from a bar drawer, he made his way over. Using each knife for target practice against the man on the wall.

Though he revealed in the chaos, Madison couldn’t help but pant from exertion. Well, that, and nearly being strangled to death. Still, there was more fun to be had! He went back over to Dan, who was now curled up on the floor. “Hey, Dan, you want a turn, too?” The other man shook his head silently. His face was wet with tears as he silently wept over the scene. “Oh, come, now. It’s not like you even killed the guy. Wait…” 

Madison looked up and away from Dan. That first guard was not at Dan’s feet as he should have been. Instead, he was crawling away from them, to the stairs to find shelter in the apartments. Giving a small tsk at the sight, Madison walked over and stabbed the man dead. He then returned to the bar. Ignoring Dan, he instead went behind the bar and poured a few shots. He surveyed the bloodbath around him. Watching as Levi made enough slashes in the third guard that his guts were hanging and shit stained the rug. Looking in amusement at the damage done to the second guard dead beside the table, he took a shot and downed in it one go. Smacking his lips, he gasped and then cheered into the revelry. “It’s good to be alive!”


	7. Mister Tender's Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A defining moment on a muddy sense of duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm posting the Day Seven prompt on Day Eight. FOR SHAME!

In the staff area of the Manzanar internment camp, Dan the janitor stored away his cleaning supplies for the night with a light grunt of exhaustion. Being a janitor in a desert is as effective as Caligula challenging the sea. It was an endless slog of cleaning dust day in and day out. He woke to it, lived through it, and likely slept through it, too. That said, a job’s a job. One that pays enough to keep him afloat. So this was his life now; dust, dirt, and more dust. 

Releasing a tired breath, he locked up the supply room and headed out into the night. He breathed into the night air, finally warm instead of stifling as they entered into November. He let himself enjoy the easier temperature, taking his time getting to the barracks for some well-needed sleep.

“Ya _-mmph!”_

A muffled cry cut in then out into the night air. Dan stuttered in his step. Looking into the direction of the sound he saw no one. He waited, looking at the administrative buildings nearby in case it came again. 

_“MmMmh!”_

There it was again. This time he was sure of two things about the muffled sound. It sounded distressed, and it sounded young. Dan walked cautiously in the direction of the cry. Creeping into the alley between buildings he was able to catch movement from an adult man holding something. No, not something, some _one._ There was a kid squirming as the man was holding them down. It took a moment to adjust to the darker setting, but Dan was finally able to recognize the man. Fred Hanson, a soldier stationed here who, honestly, has a pretty friendly reputation among the staff and Japs alike. 

Though the girl he was holding down would clearly disagree. 

Thinking fast, Dan pressed close into a side door, feeling above the door for a key he knew Marge at reception liked to hide whenever men _escorted_ her for late night assignments. Once the key was found and slid inside the lock, Dan found the nearest rock he could and launched it far past Fred and the kid. The rock thumped hard on the other end of the alley. It stopped Fred in his tracks. Even better, the girl reacted fast, kicking into the man’s leg and scampering off in Dan’s direction. In the confusion Dan quickly opened the door and stepped halfway through. As he went to close it, though, he noticed two things. One, an unholstered gun, and two, Fred tripping flat on his face. Realizing the turn of events, Dan launched back out and grabbed the kid’s hand, pulling her inside. 

She gave a shriek of alarm, but Dan answered fast. “He’s got a gun, we have to hide!” That did the trick, as the girl quieted save for a sniffle of fear. “This way.” He urged, leading her by the hand a few rooms down into a meeting room with a fire exit. He looked through the blinds, making sure that Fred was nowhere to be seen. “We should be safe here, for now. We’ll wait a few minutes until he’s gone.”

The girl didn’t respond. Instead the full impact of the situation must have hit her as she began to cry. Releasing the blinds, Dan turned back to the girl. Her cries aching something in him, he went to sit beside the girl and put her into a one-armed hug. “Hey, hey, it’s okay now. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

The girl hiccupped once, her face downcast. “It’s Jin.”

“Jin? That’s a lovely name.” He soothed. “Well, Jin, for now you just rest here. When you’re ready I’ll take you back home, how’s that? Do you know which barrack your parents are in?”

Jin shook her head. “I live in the village.” 

An orphan, then. Dan scowled as he realized why Fred went for Jin, specifically. “Alright, then. I’ll make sure you get back to the village. I’m sure Lillian and Harry will be happy to know you’re safe.” 

Jin sat up a little straighter. “What if he comes back?”

“He won’t. Not so long as I’m here.” Dan assured, offering her a kind smile. The assurance seemed to work on her, as Jin slowly broke into a timid smile.

**_“Such a sweet, tender moment.”_ **

The television screen showing Dan and Jin sizzled, freezing them mid-reel. Remote in hand, the Interrogator trailed her gaze from the screen to the man seated on a lone chair in the middle of the breaking room. “Care to explain your actions, Twenty-Six?”

Though the Interrogator instilled each Subject with a well-earned fear of her, this one, to her surprise, managed to meet her question with defiance blazing in his eyes. “I don’t see how this is relevant.”

“Hanson was your target, already marked. You stopped him that night.”

“From raping that girl, not killing her.” Twenty-Six answered.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He assured the Interrogator. “Hanson kills boys. Boys that grow up to be men, to be soldiers, soldiers like the ones that attacked Pearl Harbor and killed his brother. He hurts the girls, but he never kills them.”

The Interrogator raised her brow. The man was right, of course, but his defiance annoyed her. “Still, you intervened.”

“I stuck to the parameters of the job.” He rebuffed. “Study soon-to-be killers, learn their stories _as killers._ I interacted with the same people he interacted with for months. This is no different.”

“That’s your take from all of this?”

“It’s the truth, isn’t it? As long as I do my duty, does it matter what else happens?”

The Interrogator's eyes flicked to the large mirror framed on the side wall. Though unable to see things on the other side, she could feel a phantom gesture from Cain. A decision was made. It was out of her hands now. “We’ll see.” She reserved. “Let us continue.” She raised the remote to the television, moving on to the next segment of “Dan’s” short life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fred Hanson and Jin are entirely made up. I don't know if anyone was murdered or raped at the Manzanar concentration camp; but it's a concentration camp, so terrible acts by those running would hardly be surprising.  
> Also, because I'm a dork, Jin is a Japanese name meaning Tenderness. I couldn't resist.


	8. Mary's Scary Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scary is a matter of perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little surprised I'm able to catch up with two stories before midnight.

_Men are near._

Shaking sleep, Yona raised his head up from the frosted grass. Twitching his ears he could hear many things. Wind in the leaves, crickets chirping, his packmate’s light breathing, horses, mules, and _men._ He sniffed the air. There are two of them. Two horses, too, but only one mule. Yona crawled slowly through the bushes to see the group. It was a little hard to see them through the fog, but small pieces of firelight were shining between each man and a horse’s head. None of them notice Yona. The herd animals were upwind, oblivious of him by scent and sight. But they would notice eventually. The dirt stream was leading them closer, bringing the men closer to his packmate. 

Yona growled lowly at the thought. Men have tried to hurt his packmate in the past. Only a pup, yet they would attack. It was up to Yona to protect his pup, and no man will stand in his way!

He growled louder. Tearing into a run, he barked loudly at the herd. Yona dove between the horses legs, nipping at them even as they reared. The men shouted and the mule brayed. The scent of fear all around him. The mule broke first, running fast through the dirt stream. Then Yona made a sharp but brief bite on one of the horses’ back legs, giving it the chance to run. The other horse and man soon followed after, fleeing from him to rejoin their herd. Watching them disappear into the fog, Yona ripped out a few more menacing barks for good measure, making sure that they stay far, far away from here. 

Once he was satisfied with their lack of scent, Yona trotted back into the bushes. He sniffed over his pup a few times to make sure she was okay. Then he laid down, curling up at her side. With a small rustle, his pup wrapped her front leg around him and pulled him in close. 

“Good boy, Yona.” She whispered, stroking his back with her long paws. 

Yona preened at the praise, and enjoyed the soothing comfort of his packmate’s touch. _Yes,_ Yona thought sleepily, _I am a very good boy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yona is a Cherokee name meaning bear. A good fit for a fierce protector.


	9. Corn Husk Dolls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should have been the Day 9 post, but for the life of me I couldn't think of a story for corn husk dolls. Though, once I actually sat down to write SOMETHING, it only took 30 minutes and 460 words to finish it. *sigh* One down, two more to go.

Mary sat alone in her room, banished from the sitting room after they arrived and Sister Margaret whispered something in Daddy’s ear. Though banished, Mary wasn’t bored. Instead she filled her time with her two corn husk dolls.

“Oh, Danuwoa!” She cried in a woeful voice. “You mustn’t go alone in the woods! What if wolves come after you.”

“I must go, Salali.” Mary replied in a faux masculine voice. “I am the only man in the village strong enough to hunt.”

“Then I’ll go with you!” She shook the feminine doll vigorously. 

“You?”

“Yes! I’m the best climber in the village. I can bring a net to carry up a tree and surprise any dangerous animals that try to attack!” 

“Oh, Salali! You are so brave! I love you!” 

“And I love you!” The dolls embraced as Mary made comical kissing noises.

The door to the bedroom opened and shut quickly as her sisters, Sarah and Beth, snuck through. “Mary!” Beth whispered loudly. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?” She asked. 

“Sister Margaret said you were bleeding today at school.”

Mary flushed at the statement. That did happen; though, when she told the Sister in panic at the blood, the Sister refused to send her to a doctor. Instead she was given a special cloth to wear and was marched home. She didn’t understand any of it. Sister Margaret muttered something about it being expected for a girl, but her mother never made any mention of it when she was alive. But Mary explained none of that, and only gave her younger sisters a nod.

“She’s been talking to Daddy about it.” Sarah added. “Says it makes you a woman now.”

“A woman?” Mary blinked. Looking down absently at the dolls in her hands, Mary shook her head in confusion. “I don’t feel like a woman; and I’m only twelve, besides.”

“I don’t understand it either.” Sarah confessed. “We’ve had scrapes and cuts plenty of times. What makes this time different?” 

Mary pondered at the strangeness of it all. “Well, I didn’t get cut, I don’t think. The blood just happened.”

“Really?” Beth’s eyes went wide, as did Sarah’s. Beth shivered slightly. “I don’t think I like that. Any way I can stop from being a woman?”

The older girls giggled at the thought. Mary looked back at the dolls with a sly smile. “Maybe we can push it off for a time? Salali and Danuwoa are going on a deer hunt in the haunted woods. Do you want to join in?”

“Do I!” Beth and Sarah ran straight to the dresser to grab their dolls. From there they played a fun adventure in the haunted woods, the world beyond their bedroom door fading from their minds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both Danuwoa and Salali are Cherokee names, meaning warrior and squirrel, respectfully.


	10. Mister Storm's Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viewing a pattern of chasing lightning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Managed to squeeze in the Day 10 prompt before Day 11 can end. Seems I'm chasing lightning!

In a dingy card club on Seventh Avenue four men sat at a table in a high-stakes game of poker. Though the table sat friends all, the men found themselves whirled into a heated debate.

“What are you, crazy?” Robert Greene threw wildly to the man across from him. “Look, I’m no saint, but at the end of the day what happens is God’s will. Preachers go around saying we’re made in his image, don’t they? So, clearly, me being who I am is out of my hands, ain't it?”

Max Fox and Lou Howl, the typical pair during these debates, groaned loudly over Greene’s repetitively religious defense. “If we’re _all_ supposed to be that way,” Fox argued, “then we’d _be_ the same.”

“It’s like the French are saying,” Howl added, “we’re defined by whatever decisions we make.”

“All of them being God’s plan.” Greene rebutted.

“There is no plan, Robert. It’s freedom!” Howl exclaimed. “That’s the beauty of it! We choose how we want to be, and it’s those choices that make us who we are.”

Revealing his hand for the round, the fourth man - “Moey Dimples” Wolinsky - muttered against the excitable claim. “I think I can live without all that.”

Fox side-eyed the man. Annoyed that his three of a kind lost to the man’s flush, and further annoyed by his dismissal. “What’s a matter, Moey? Can’t handle a little action and consequence?” 

Wolinsky’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, let’s put it to example.” He tossed his hand over to Greene for the next round. “You convince Lepke to turn himself in to the feds-”

“-You won’t let that go, will ya?” Wolinksy growled.

Fox continued with his argument. “ _They’ll cut you a deal,_ you tell him. Say you’ve got a man on the inside that’s going to smooth things over. Yet what happened? No man, no paper trail, _nothin’!_ Now he’s out fighting a visit to Old Sparky while you’re here playing poker. So, let me ask you this, Moey, is this all _God’s_ plan, or are you just a shit lieutenant?”

“Hey, fuck you!” Wolinsky stood up, fist flying towards Fox. 

Fox, Greene, and Howl all pushed away from the table, though not enough for Fox to dodge the blow completely. Getting his bearings, Fox punched Wolinsky, causing the man to stumble off of the table. Then he had to dodge another blow, this time from Greene. Watching out for both men, Fox caught a glint of metal near Wolinsky’s hand. Not wasting time to risk his skin, Fox pulled out his gun, firing at Wolinsky. He then turned and fired at Greene before the man could retaliate. Quicker than it felt right, the fight was over. 

Fox panted in adrenaline-fueled breaths. He looked over the two bodies on the ground, blood slowly pooling around them. It was then that the rush passed, and horror dawned on him. He looked around the room. Everyone else in the club had fled. Everyone but Howl, who was backed up against the bar with a stone-faced expression.

“Lou, I-I didn’t mean it! Moey had a gun!”

“So do you,” Howl replied quietly, “and yours is the only one I see.”

Scuffled cries could be heard outside. The cops would swarm this place at any moment. “You gotta help me! You can testify! Please, Lou, I can’t get the chair! I don’t want to die!”

Howl frowned in a grim line. “I like you, Max; but it's like you said. It’s all action and consequence. …and Old Sparky’s not getting me today.”

The door burst open. Fox turned to the sound as two cops ran into the club. Fox turned to Howl once again to plead for help, but no help was to be found. Howl was gone.

* * *

Slipping into the backroom, Howl shut the door quietly behind him. Satisfied that the police would be distracted with the bloody scene, he worked his way over to the back wall. Removing a stack of boxes, the wall darkened with the square of a wall safe. It took a few spins to get it opened, but Howl was assured that the combination he studied was the right one. Once the safe door opened he grabbed what money he could -just enough to go unnoticed during the inevitable raid of this place. With a smile he locked it up again. The boxes returned to their spot, too, with just enough space to reveal the change in colour on the wall. In a few quick steps from the safe Howl revealed another hidden treasure, a key to the escape hatch. Another door opened, another door shut, and Howl was free to fly as he pleased.

* * *

“Quite the adventure.” The Interrogator mused at the screen, watching Howl flee through the underground tunnel. “He could have killed you, you realize?”

Twenty-One shrugged carelessly. “It was always a possibility.”

The Interrogator turned to him, an eyebrow raised curiously. “And still you went ahead with the plan?”

“What’s a job seeing murder without some risk?” He seemed jovial at the rhetorical question. An emotion that had The Interrogator similarly amused. “It worked, anyways. Old Sparky didn’t get me then, and it didn’t get me with any of the others.”

“Yet always you flirted with a chance encounter.” She mused, pressing forward to continue the year. She has already gone through the footage once to know the pattern. A story, a con, a conclusion, and an escape. If this subject survives to the Marking, considerations will be required to ensure he survives. After all, Cain has no need for short-term investments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This tale of murder is based on true events. Speculation exists of why Max Fox killed Moey Dimples and Robert Greene, so I flirted with the possibilities.  
> Also, Old Sparky is 40's slang for the electric chair.


	11. Devil In Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A question echoes through time, haunting fans and Blood Travelers alike! _"...is that surf rock?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a day behind, but at least I was able to have fun with this one!

Residing in a designated studio of the Killing Place, two Blood Travelers sat at a table hard at work. To be within a studio between assignments is a common occurrence for any Traveler. After all, the art of storymaking -and telling- is just as important as the stories themselves. However, in this particular session, Messrs. Storm and Tender were faced with a unique and challenging assignment. 

“Who would have thought a television show would be difficult to write?” Mister Storm mused.

“Me.” Mister Tender answered simply. His eyes were analyzing the papers before him. Story notes, set designs, prop lists, the collection seemed endless. “Television didn’t exist in our time. I suppose theatres must need things like this, but I’ve never seen one.”

“Really? Dear God, man, what did you ever do for entertainment?” Storm teased.

“It’s called books, Mister Storm. Maybe you should try one.”

“Ah, but you can’t be reading at a screen. That’s far too boring.”

Tender huffed at the reminder. “I suppose not.” He glanced up at Storm, finding the other man not so much reading notes as putting them in a messy pile. “What are those?”

“The reject pile.” Storm answered simply.

Tender pulled out one of the papers to look it over. His eyes narrowed. “This is my draft for the Devil in Camp.” An affirming hum answered him. “It’s the opening act of the show.”

“Which is why we need a song of substance.” Storm chastised. He gestured at the paper. “Keseberg was vile and cruel, but your opening act can’t be this dreary, dark thing. It needs light, cheer, something to hook the audience!”

Mister Tender blinked slowly, pondering if he had misheard his compatriot. “It needs ‘cheer’?”

_“Yes!”_

“...you do realize this song is about a man so horrible we’re giving him the moniker The Devil In Camp?”

Mister Storm didn't answer immediately. Instead he lounged into his seat, eyes considering the other man as the gears whirled in his mind. At last he raised a finger, an idea striking him. “You need a new angle.” He decided. “It’s not just about Keseberg, it’s the opening act to the Donner Party as a whole. Think, what is the foundation of the Donner Party? See how that mixes in with Keseberg.”

Tender shook his head lightly, but relented. “Alright. I’ll see what I can come up with.”

Silence grew between them once again. Each continued in their work. Ink and paper spread wider along the table. Eventually, silence broke between them once again as Mister Tender spoke. “What would you consider a uniquely Californian sound?”

“The ribbit of the Pacific treefrog.” Storm quipped. 

“Come on, I’m being serious.” Though rolling his eyes, the answer did lighten his mood a little. “I’ve been thinking, the goal of the party was to reach California. So the song should reflect that somehow. We need to give it a spin that lets the audience feel that desire for California.”

“Hmm… a light, cheery spin to California…” Storm snapped his fingers. “I’ve got just the thing!” He leapt off the chair and ventured through a library of music on the shelf. Fingers danced over a collection of vinyl records. Then, plucking one out, Mister Storm headed to the record player and played the first track. 

The studio filled with a crackling sound, followed immediately by high, ghostly laugh and a high-energy drum beat. The drums went on into their fast pace, not stopping even as a heavily-reverbed electric guitar entered the fray. It’s own melody came fast and excitable. It felt as though both instruments were leaping, racing against each other. It was a sound entirely foreign to Mister Tender. “What _is_ that?”

“ _That_ is surf rock!” Storm grinned, gesturing wildly to the album of a man riding under a towering wave. “A sound that means fun, sun, and surf. _That,_ my friend, is the unique promise of California!”

The musical initiate sat mutely at the proclamation. The music washed over him. He tried to picture the image Storm described. The speed of the drums mimicked more the speed of illegal car racing, though he supposed it could shift to the running of teenagers across a beach, instead. Wild bangs could translate into the crash of waves. Yes, he was beginning to see the energy of a Californian beach to the rhythm. “Well it certainly fits your craving for cheer.” He glanced over to where the record had been sorted. “Should I be concerned at all that it comes from the 1960’s? The show is to air in 1952, after all.”

“True.” Storm thought it over. His eyes then danced with mischief. “Then again, we _are_ supposed to make this show seem unique. Why not become trendsetters, as well!”

Tender chuckled at the thought. “I think you mean plagiarizers, Mister Storm.”

“Ah-ah, can’t be plagiarism if the style doesn’t actually exist for them, yet!”

“Ha! I suppose not.” Tender grinned. “Alright then, let’s give this ‘Californian promise’ a shot. Maybe we'll even get away with it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Mister Storm plays is the classic surf rock tune: Wipe Out by The Surfaris.


	12. A Waltz to the Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is always wise to know when it is best to sacrifice, and when to dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The opening comes from the final diary entry of Tamsen Donner (1847).

_ I am lost. _

_ My George is gone. _

_ There is a devil outside my tent. _

_ He will take me but I will make you a promise, George. _

_ If it’s one hundred years, I will see you again. _

_ We’re the Last Americans. _

A tear fell, splashing against the ink. It whirled, mingled, a dance of darkness and light, yet little time passed before the darkness overtook, and the inky droplet slid off the page. Tamsen Donner shuddered as it fell. A dread sense enveloped her, a premonition of what’s to come. 

She has heard him in the wind. Lewis Keseberg’s steps outside her tent. Pacing, stalking, watching,  _ waiting. _ She had no illusions of what he was waiting for. She had heard talk of his boasting, of his  _ feasting! _ She shuddered again, this time with disgust. 

There was a part of her that wished to weep. Moreso for George’s sake than for hers. Yet the time to mourn her husband must needs pass. She must think not on what she has lost, but on what will endure. Her children -Elitha, Leanna, Frances, Georgia, Eliza- they made it out. They will survive this. They will survive her, as all children should of their mothers. Though she had once hoped that that fact would have abided some decades of mercy, Tamsen knew it was not to be. 

A crunch of steps broke through the quiet of her musings. Tamsen closed her journal and moved it aside. She listened patiently. In a matter of moments Keseberg will know the truth, see the trail and the wrapped body of her George, the closest she could do to bury him in this dismal, frozen place. Yes, in a matter of minutes his steps grew closer, louder, faster!

Lewis Keseberg entered her tent, tearing at it more than anything. He looked at her, eyes sweeping over her sitting form. They grew calculating, and he offered her a smile. “It must be cold here. Come, I have room in the lean-to.” His hand outstretched to her.

The action stilled Tamsen. Locked her into a brace of absurdity. For surely this was madness? No, not madness, a trick. Did he mean to lead her like a lamb to the slaughter, too stupid or naïve to know which of them will be the last American standing? Her eyes flashed, offended that he assumed so little of her. Outraged that this devil would dare dictate her final moments! 

In a moment shocking both parties, Tamsen reached to her makeshift table, pulled out a hunting knife, and stood in opposition to his offered hand. 

Even if this is hopeless, even knowing she will die, Tamsen has sacrificed too much in her life to die a sacrificial lamb for this devil’s meal. So she took a breath, solidifying her resolve- 

_ My children, do remember me. _

-and attacked!


	13. I Hang the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Love, close your eyes, there are stories to tell."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reasons, the main character of this chapter is a French immigrant.

Thomas trudged slowly through the doorway of their home. He could hardly bring himself to step inside before falling apart. In fact, the door shut merely from his bodyweight as he leaned against it. He slid slowly down, wishing to fall and never come back up again. That thought flashed a memory in him, painful and clear, knowing that only a few days have passed since…

He couldn’t finish the thought. Thomas curled in on himself. God, what will he do without-

“Papa?” A timid voice called from further into the house. Thomas lifted his face towards the hall. Though dark with night, a soft glow reflected on the yellow locks of his little girl. Brightened, more, by the delight of her smile. “Papa!” She ran to him, laughter on her lips.

His dark thoughts banished from her light. Opening his arms, Thomas was at once enveloped in his five year old’s embrace. “I missed you, Papa!”

“I missed you, too, Clara.” He held her tight, kissing the top of her head. “You didn’t give grand-mère any trouble while we were away, did you?”

“No!” Clara answered loudly. Perhaps too loudly for it to be truthful. Thomas allowed himself a small chuckle at the thought. Regardless of the truth he will indulge his little girl, his little light. “Papa, since you’re home, can you hang the moon for me?”

“Anything you say, ma clair de lune.” He swept her up in his arms, whirling her in a circle until her legs flew about.

“Pas moi!” She laughed in protest. “Ma lune! Ma lune!”

“Ta lune?” He gasped in false scandal as he lifted her higher. “Je suis désolé, ma clair de lune, you shine so brightly I could not tell the difference!”

_ “Papa!” _ She groaned, yet couldn’t help but giggle over her father’s silly antics. 

They laughed together, father and daughter, as Thomas carried her to the bedroom and placed her back into her bed. From there he found his daughter’s good luck charm on the windowsill. It was a lovely necklace of pale quartz shaped into a crescent. Sometimes, when the moon shined through the window on her side, the quartz would take on a particular glow, as though it were a moon in its own right. A fact which delighted his little girl endlessly and served as a shield against the scary things in the dark. So it became a custom between the two that he treated it as a charm to protect her in the night, encasing her with light and song to help her sleep. 

He took the charm off of the windowsill, his voice humming and warming up to sing. His daughter, though, changed to a look of curiosity. “Papa, where’s maman?”

His voice stilled. The charm slid from his hands, though the chain caught onto his fingers. Thomas gave no notice, though. His thoughts grew dark again. 

“Papa?” Clara sat up at once, noticing his expression. “What’s wrong?” 

Her hand reached out for his, brushing lightly against his wrist. It broke through her father momentarily. Thomas blinked, gaze drifting to her hand, then to Clara’s concerned face. He looked back to the charm around his wrist. Slowly, his other hand traveled, sliding into his pocket, feeling a touch of chain and metal. He pulled the metal from his pocket and looked down at it. The casing of his wife’s locket glinted in the moonlight, it’s sheen marred with spots of blood from when-

“That’s maman’s necklace, isn’t it?” Clara asked innocently.

Thomas swallowed his unease. Fastening his grip on both pendants, he turned his attention back to his little girl. “Clara, there’s something I need to tell you.”


	14. Fingers of Meat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A game of Toil, Trouble, and Doom!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter involved a large dose of method-writing. "What's method writing" -you ask? Why, it's when a person takes out the Donner Party Board Game and, like a crazy person, plays it by herself and reacts to each turn as though she is the characters involved - writing down the results all the while.  
> This took nearly 3 hours. It was both insane and hilarious. I also secretly hope this chapter becomes a reality.

The year is 2021. For two years a plague has ravaged and isolated the world. When a vaccine developed in June the world celebrated. Over the passing months it dispersed around the globe. Slowly, the isolations subsided. First by region, then by nation, until airlines and borders were flooded en masse so that people could reunite once again. 

It is this future that brings us to December of 2021. In celebration of survival and friendship, eight friends journey to a winter holiday’s cabin. When the sun shines they explore the woods and the quaint small town nearby. When night falls they play games and talk of fond memories. On this night it is no different than previous nights. Outside the snows lie deep, while inside the fire blazes warm. Throats are tickled with laughter, then soothed with mulled ciders and hot chocolate. The laughter increases once a particular board game is brought onto the table.

**The Donner Party Board Game:** **_The Ultimate Battle Between Food and Evil_ **

“Didn’t we already live through that?” A friend jokes. After all, the Donner Party was isolated for months due to the harsh conditions around them.

“With enough snow we can live through it now.” Another teases, their current residence being more literal to the Party’s snowed-in conditions. 

The teasing brought merit to the choice, though, and soon all eight were eager to play.

“It says 2 to 6?” One friend muttered, somewhat disheartened. 

A fourth, however, had their eyes glint with mirth. “If they didn’t want more than six players then they shouldn’t have made eight characters. We can all play!” They pulled out the eight character pieces, a rainbow of historical characters lined up for selection. 

The red Orphan Girl: Mary Donner

The fiery Banished Horseman: James F. Reed,

The saffron Gentle Giant: Big Bill McCutchen,

The yellow Heartsick Hunter: William Eddy,

The green Snow-Blind Servant: Eliza Williams,

The periwinkle Belle of the Wagon Train: Mary Ann Graves,

The puce Handsome Irishwoman: Peggy Breen, and

The peach Half-Breed Teamster: Jean Baptiste Trudeau

The friends smiled, knowing the truth of the fourth friend’s statement, and claimed a colour for their own. The massive board game was then unfolded, with cards laid out and fingers of meat rationed to the hungry party. With the game set, and roles chosen, the eight began to play.

The first round came as a chaotic start. Reed was forced to gain a wait plate and lose a turn. McCutchen, poor sap, advanced only for a Toil card to bring him back to the start. Though true misfortune came to Peggy Breen, who rolled a 7 when all spots were taken from four to seven.

“You rolled the dice, Meat Doler, now pay up!” Reed grinned. 

Breen lamented, but played the role. One by one she forfeited a finger of meat along the wagon trail until her One Finger of Meat cards were no more. Worse yet, came the reality of the third square. “Stubborn Tamsen Donner won’t desert dying husband. Fall back to Alder Creek?!”

Around the table, the others winced. “Oh, tough roll.” Eliza Williams pitied. Alas, there was nothing Breen’s player could do but fall below the start-line to Alder Creek.

Beside Breen, the final player of the round groaned. “This is going to be bad, I know it.” Sure enough, Trudeau rolled a six, meeting a similar fate to Breen. 

“And this is why they said only six players!” Eddy exclaimed, to a chorus of laughter.

The second round proved to be a wicked battle by whole hands. Eddy took to a cutoff, only to lose “5 fingers of hallucinatory meat”. Then Williams called Murder on Donner, stealing 5 fingers from the poor orphan girl. Only Trudeau would receive a gentle blessing, gaining 5 fingers from a toil card. Through it all, Reed watched in dispassionate interest. Waiting hungry with his plate.

When round three journeyed through, Reed turned to Breen with a smile. Passing her the wait plate with a teasing call. “Thank ye kindly, Meat Doler!”

Breen smiled back. “You’re very welcome, Mr. Reed!” 

Reed rolled with a flourish, delighted to see the dice land on 11. Much like the Banished Horseman of the past, Reed raced ahead of the others, losing only two fingers of meat on the gallop.

On the next turn, McCutchen rolled the die. With it came two choices, lose a finger to Eddy on the cut off, or take the easy -boring- choice on the main path. Being the Gentle Giant, the choice came easy, and the reward even greater. “Wild Card! Mister Storm gales “O, ye shall toil!” Direct one of your fellow cannibals to the cutoff of your choosing, forward or back.” The crowd ooh’d at the proclamation, but shied as McCutchen gandered at their fingers of meat. He gave a sneaky smile at Eliza Williams. “You’re heading back to Summit Valley.” He announced, and the poor snow-blind servant was forced back the way she came. 

One would think such gains were a one-time fortune, but in the fourth round all were stunned when McCutchen pulled another Trouble of bounty. “Mr. Tender bellows “Trouble! Trouble ahead!” Take 15 fingers of meat from a fellow cannibal of your choosing!”

“Fifteen?! Oh, that’s just cruel!” One of the players cried. With the damage of the second round, only half of the other players even had five-finger cards in possession. That didn’t stop McCutchen from losing his gentle status as he leered over the remaining cards. “I suppose I was already mean to you…” he gestured at Williams. His finger beckoned at Trudeau. “Fork ‘em over!” He grinned, a savage awaiting his feast. Poor teamster Trudeau, already limping at the back of the wagon train, was now starved of three hands of meat. Then, just to give insult to injury, Trudeau ended the fifth round calling a revenge Murder against McCutchen, only to lose five more fingers of meat to him by the Doom.

As the game wore on the travelers grew desperate and hungry. Donner and Williams set their sights on the finish line. Others braced the weather in a desperate cling to survive. McCutchen, blessed by Toil, Trouble, and Doom, continued to grow fat with fingers and artifact cards. In his antithesis was the gaunt Trudeau, who by the end of the eighth round had only his own ten fingers to gnaw on.

On the ninth round, on a dice read nine, Reed eyed his options with a feral gleam. “I’m doing it!” He announced, riding up to Keseberg’s Cutoff. 

“You’re brave.” Graves blinked at Keseberg’s bloodied plate.

Reed, though, shrugged it off. “I only have seventeen fingers of meat. I might as well give it a try.”

“Well, at least if you lose I won’t be the first to die.” Trudeau teased.

“Ha! That rhymed!” Williams giggled. 

The others laughed along, all except Reed as he made for the wheel. “Come on, double!” He hoped. He flicked the spinner, hearing it whirl around and around …landing solidly on LOSE GAME. “NOOOOOOO!” He cried loudly. The table around him laughed or mourned at his expense. 

“Ah, that hurts!” Breen lamented, though she had to bring an open hand his way. “Sorry, Reed, but you’re out of the game.” Reed looked forlorn at the result, but had no choice but to relinquish his fingers to the Meat Doler.

Somber at their first loss of life, the game continued. The players became more conservative at that point. On a chance of switching with another player, Eddy stole the orphan’s lead, avoiding Keseberg’s wrath. Which proved fortuitous as he ended up being the first to reach Fort Sacramento and was able to claim a hand from each living member of the trail.

This cautionary trail went on for another round, until Trudeau had a wicked idea. “I’m going to the cutoff.”

“Is there even a point?” McCutchen replied smugly. “You won’t get much from doubling your meat.”

“True,” Trudeau twitched to a sly smile, “but since I’m going to die anyway, I might as well take one of you down with me.”

The others flashed in a moment of panic as they realized the implication. If Trudeau dies now, then whomever is the last to Fort Sacramento… well, they  _ won’t _ make it.” 

“Now that’s evil.” Donner commented, eyeing her own place on the final cutoff.

“Yes it is!” Trudeau exclaimed, going straight for the DOOM spinner. Sure enough, it landed on LOSE GAME, and he chuckled quietly. “Well, have fun, you five!”

The catalyst brought a frenzied rush for the finish. By a pair of benevolent Toils, both Donner and Graves rushed straight to the awaiting Fort, with Williams following after them. Then Breen was forced to sacrifice an artifact to spare her from a desperate Doom against McCutchen, but it wasn’t enough to spare her completely. On the final round McCutchen crossed the finish line, leaving the Meat Doler as Keseberg’s final meal.

For the five living souls, it was a chance to rejoice, a time to count their blessings - and their fingers. Graves trailed in fifth place with fifteen fingers. By strange chance, Donner and Williams both tallied at twenty-six, but as the first to reach the Fort it was Donner who claimed third place. With those spots claimed, the moment of truth arrived. Would it be the gentle giant, with his giant pile of fingers, or the heartsick hunter who raced first to the fort?

The Meat Doler awaited the results. “Alright, folks, what’s the total?”

“Fifty-nine.” Eddy answered. The rest looked over to McCutchen with baited breath.

“...Fifty-five.” McCutchen lamented. 

The others sat, astonished at the results. Graves then turned to Eddy with mild amusement. “Guess it’s a good thing we had more than six players, eh?”

The others snickered at the mention, though Eddy took it in stride with a smile of his own. “Guess so.”

“Well, that settles it.” Reed smirked, eyes flicked over to the final instructions of the player handbook. “We all know what to say, right?”

The other players laughed knowingly and turned to face Eddy. With grins all around, they shouted loudly at the night’s victor. 

“EAT ME!”


	15. Keys in a Skirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killing Place, Killing Place, I spy a clerk. How many keys does she keep in her skirt?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm grateful that the prompt is "keys in a skirt" and not "locks in a ledger", because the more I think about the locks the more frustrated I get over not understanding the meaning. Are they physical locks on the ledger? Purchases listed? Surnames listed? It's been three hours and the mystery's still bothering me!

At the library of The Killing Place, the Clerk’s pen scratched along her ledger. What the ledger contained, Twenty-One wasn’t sure. Still, his eyes watched from over his book as the Clerk continued to work. After a time, the ledger closed. Her work completed, the Clerk pulled out a ring of keys and placed them in her skirt, then took the ledger with her as she left down the elevator.

“What do you suppose those keys are for?” He mused aloud.

Of the trainees at the table, only Fourteen seemed to hear the question. That said, he gave it hardly a thought. “Just for the rooms, ain’t they?”

“No.” Twenty-One shook his head. “There are only eight on that ring. It can’t be that.”

Placing a marker in her book, Seven’s expression grew pensive over the query. “...If Cain’s the real Cain from the bible, he must have collected a fortune over time. Maybe he has a vault somewhere here?” 

The prospect put a shine in Twenty-One’s eyes. He leaned forward towards Seven, his voice hushed yet held a sharp excitement at the thought. “That is _quite_ the theory! Perhaps you and I should test it?” 

Sevens eyes grew wide at the idea. Panicked, yet tempered with consideration. “I don’t know…” 

“Might I make a suggestion?” Twenty-Six interrupted. Seven and Twenty-One turned to the man. Twenty-Six, on the other hand, didn’t even bother to lift his eyes from the page.

Realizing that the question wasn’t rhetorical, Twenty-One swept an offering hand in his direction. “By all means.”

“If you want to know what those keys are for, your best bet is to live long enough to ask.”

The table was quiet for a moment, only the sound of a turning page shifted among them. 

“Well, now, that’s just boring!” Twenty-One carped.

Fourteen chuckled at the response. “It’s like they say, Twenty-One, curiosity killed the cat.”

“Ah, but satisfaction brought it back!” Twenty-One argued with a sly smile.

“Until Cain kills you permanently, making the whole endeavour completely pointless.” Twenty-Six deadpanned.

Twenty-Six placed his book on the table, finally turning to Twenty-One with an expectant expression. Twenty-One met him head on, a frown growing more sour by the second. To his opposite, Twenty-Six’s face slowly grew into a smile, a knowing expression that his logic was settling in. At last, the silence broke, Twenty-One falling into the back of his seat with a pout.

“ _You’re_ the one who’s killing my fun!”

Twenty-Six grinned, offering the man a slight nod. “And you’re welcome for that.” 

The table laughed quietly at the exchange. Then, one by one they went back to their books. The keys drifting far to the back of their minds.


	16. Six Mile Inn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Storm and Tender arrive at the Six Mile Inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a little different than the other Blood Traveler chapters. It's a mix between the fanon of those stories and a prequel to my other work, Night On The New Continent. Though I hesitate to call it a direct prequel.

The Black Wagon departed from 1816 by an inn just six miles out from Charleston. In its wake stood Messrs. Storm and Tender, who stared at the inn with puzzlement.

“There’s something odd about the building, isn’t there?” Mister Storm commented.

Mister Tender searched across the structure, unsure if the strange sensation he felt was a matter of architecture or aura. “It’s definitely not normal. Suppose we’ll know once we’re inside.”

So into the building they went. The fixtures and patrons of the establishment seemed normal enough, though the outer walls seemed to be hexagonal. “Why do I have the strangest feeling that they took being six miles into account when they designed this place?” Tender mused.

Storm snickered as he caught the man’s meaning. “Well then good thing it’s not the _two mile inn_ , else we’d be sleeping on walls!”

As they laughed, a pretty and busty blonde woman approached them. “Afternoon, gentlemen. You boys here for a bite, or for a place to stay the night?”

Storm offered the woman a flirtatious bow. “I believe both options would be an absolute delight!”

The woman met his flirtation with a coquettish smile. “Well then, how about you two have a seat and I bring you the first course. Right this way, gentlemen.” She led them to a table and listed off the meal options and drinks on tap. After a quick introduction and exchange of flirtatious banter, the woman left to make their drinks.

Tender waited a moment until she was out of earshot. “You did notice the Mark on her arm, right?”

“Clear as day.” Storm said through the teeth of his smile, giving the woman a wave as she looked back their way with a wink. Once her eyes left them, he turned to Tender and pointed his head in her direction. “My money’s on her trying to kill someone, and they get Marked in self-defense.”

Tender tapped a finger against the table. “I think I’ll need to gauge the room before I can take you on that bet.” 

“By all means.” Storm offered. “We probably have a while until they get here.”

* * *

Waiting on a murderer was taking longer than expected. No one died that day, or the next day, or the day after that. People would come, have meals, maybe spend a night at the inn, but always come morning they would leave or enter the cycle for a new day. It took about a week for someone to go missing overnight. When it did happen, though, it was because the innkeeper, Lavinia, drugged the man’s rum and stole his purse before dumping his body in a lake. A murder it was, but Lavinia is already Marked; thus clearly not the muse of the intended story. 

After that night there came something… odd about the people who stayed overnight. 

First there was a girl and her dog, a poor waif that offered to help Lavinia around the inn to pay for her room and board. More to that, the girl was Marked. It didn’t seem odd to the Blood Travelers, at first. After all, a girl on the run needing a place to stay is par for the course for an accidental killer needing to survive.

Then there came a boy, even younger than the girl, who was also Marked. He seemed quiet and withdrawn as well, yet colder as though he didn’t care for how he was Marked. Like the girl, though, he too managed to cut a deal with Lavinia, working in the kitchens with the men on staff. Perhaps, they thought, Lavinia had a soft spot for children on the run?

Then came Rosalie, and their thoughts began to doubt. The woman was anything but an innocent. Sure, the woman laughed loudly and offered sweet smiles, but no amount of genial words could hide the _shackles_ attached to the woman! She was obviously some escapee from a madhouse. Even without the Mark on her, she was an obvious danger. One that cleared the inn of saner travelers until all that remained were people bearing the mark of Cain’s sin.

“Okay, this is getting weird.” Storm murmured as he surveyed the room around them.

Even Tender tensed over the situation. “It is. It should be obvious that whatever this is leading to is going to be something big in the history of things ...but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something here we’re missing.”

“I know what you mean.” Storm puffed out a breath of air, attempting to shake his nerves. “We need a distraction. I have the card deck on me, if you want to play?”

“Sure.” Tender nodded. “Could also use a drink while we’re at all.”

“Yes. As long as it’s not rum.” Storm lamented, hailing Lavinia as he did so.

Tender huffed a small laugh and gave the man a nod. “Most definitely!”


	17. The Indiana Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who's that preachin'?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fascinating as it is to learn how deep these lyrics go into history, I really did not care for a story about the Indiana Man. Dude was super into slavery and was likely an all-around bastard.

On the morning of November the 7th, 1811, hours before the intended peace talks between the army and the confederacy’s “Prophet”, Tenskwatawa, the Indians launched a surprise attack on our camp. Though we were caught off guard, we managed to hold ground. Eventually the Indians found themselves low on ammunition. When they did, they fled. 

It took us some time to recover from the attack; but, once ready, we marched on Prophetstown. It seems that the Indians knew they didn’t stand a chance; because, when we arrived, the town was deserted. Not a soul remained, other than an old woman too sick to move. A few of the men were disappointed with the empty town. Our leader, Governor William Harrison, on the other hand, was pleased with the result. While the frustrated ones desecrated graves, Harrison took stock of the town. When we reported the thousands of bushels worth of winter stores, he smiled smugly at the thought. “Take the lot.” He ordered. “When you’re done, we’re burning this place to the ground!” 

That night the army rejoiced around campfires. Every one of them drunk on ale and adrenaline as they talked about the battle and the flames. Though we joined in on the toasts to victory, Storm and I were mostly quiet during the night. This was a night of history, after all, and there were stories to tell.

“My friends!” Harrison stood up, wobbling from the drink, yet bold as any peacock. “We stand here today on VICTORY!” Cheers rang all around him. “Yes! The Prophet tried to trick us with his false peace, but where is he now? We went to Prophetstown and looked all around, but there ain’t no Prophets left!” 

The group laughed before he continued. “This was a major victory, my friends. Without Prophetstown, Tecumseh and Tenskwatawa -wata-wata-” he slurred, and the men around him jeered, “without Prophetstown they have nowhere to hide. Soon, we’ll be rid of the lot! And the rewards, oh, they’ll be great. Soon, men, our goal will be realized. Eighteen States we have on this land. By December, I say, by December there’ll be nineteen!” His drink sloshed as he swung excitedly. More cheers rang around him. “When that’s done, they’ll put _me_ in charge. I can see it now! I’ll be so damn good at putting these bastards in their place, why, they just might make me President!”

“God, I hope not.” Storm muttered in his drink.

“You never know.” I took a sip of my drink, watching as the group continued to cheer for their governor. “They way these people act and vote, just about anyone can be President.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news: the presidency only lasted a month!


	18. The Emigrants Guide to Oregon and California

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No harm ever came from reading a book" - Evelyn Carnahan, The Mummy

Mister Tender sat inside the Black Wagon, lounging in his seat with a copy of _The Emigrants Guide to Oregon and California._ When they had departed the Killing Place, Cain had gifted the book to the two Blood Travelers. Well, perhaps gifted was the wrong word for it. _Required reading_ seemed more apt. So, while Storm took the reins, Tender ventured inside, determined to read the book in time for their destination, Fort Bridger, Wyoming.

As they neared Fort Bridger, Tender felt as the Wagon slowed to a halt. That said, he ignored the stop, too engrossed with the book to notice. A few minutes later a knock came at the door, only to immediately open as Storm climbed inside.

“Is everything alright?” Tender asked.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Storm replied. “Though I just crossed paths with a rider passing letters. I think you’ll want to take a look at this.”

Putting the book aside, Tender took the open letter from Storm and read it through. It was a letter encouraging travelers to California to join one Lansford Hastings at Fort Bridger. With him, Hastings promises to guide travelers through a “new and better road to California”. Reading the honeyed words, Tender couldn’t help but smirk at the irony of it all. 

Across from him, Storm spoke. “So, what do you think? Obviously he’s the reason we’re out here.” He nodded into the direction of _The Emigrants Guide to Oregon and California._ The name Lansford Hastings emblazoned on the cover.

“Tempting… but I think we should wait until _after_ he leaves. We’ll follow whoever decides to try the trail without him. That’s bound to be our story.”

“Really? What makes you say that?”

Tender reached over, lifting the book for emphasis. “Because anyone willing to put their trust in this garbage, without anyone around who knows better, is _absolutely_ going to die!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The longest title, the shortest one-shot


	19. Unwed Henry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A roguish hunter discovers a new type of prey.

***BANG!***

From the sights of his rifle, Henry watched as the bird fell. The shot was perfect. No struggle for life or excessive damage to the body, just a quick, clean death. He strolled over to the body and lifted the grouse up by its feet. It was a good size, and will make for an excellent meal once it’s been cleaned up.

“Seems you’re fixing for a feast, Henry.” Leaning against a nearby tree, his girl, Robin, watched him with hungry eyes. Hungry, for sure, but Henry knew it wasn’t for any regular sort of meat. “Three rabbits, a sable, a doe, and now a grouse. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to impress me.”

“Is that so?” He mused. “Seems to me that you don’t know me half as well as you think you do.” 

“Oh, really?” she purred. 

“Of course.” He walked to her side and leaned forward. One arm rested above her head, while the other hovered just outside her hip. “I like impressing you, and I like you watching me.”

He leaned in closer, watching as her breath caught, her own body unconsciously moving closer. He chuckled darkly at the move, and pushed himself away from the tree -and her. “Seems you like watching me, too.” He winked at her, then turned to deposit the grouse onto the small pile of animals he’s hunted so far.

Behind him, Robin shuddered a breath. Then, soon, she seemed to collect herself. “Henry Fletcher, you are a horrible tease!”

“Aww, is my little Robin going red?” He sat down onto a stump, laughing loudly over her indignation. Pulling a bottle from his bag, he took a swig of his drink as he looked back at her. His eyes drank in the sight of his Robin. Her long legs and lithe figure, that cream and freckled skin growing red with blush, her face framed by a cascade of wavy red hair, and then there were her eyes, blue and bold with mischief. Every inch of him wanted her, but he knew a hunt like hers takes patience and precision. He was on a knife’s edge right now. So he switched, offering the bottle to her. 

The action brought her in closer. Robin took the bottle from his hand and took a swig, herself. Her eyes kept locked to his, daring all the while. He did have to admit, some part of him did feel impressed by her. When she finished, he raised his hand back for the bottle. She brought it in close …and Henry caught her by the wrist, pulling her in. 

“Henry!” She laughed, stumbling as he pulled her against him until she seated, too, on the stump. Letting go of the bottle, she used a free hand to punch him lightly on the arm. “You could have knocked me over!”

“I knew what I was doing.” He assured her. “I just wanted to get close to you.”

Robin tittered, leaning against him with a teasing grin. “You talk like I’m one of your wild animals, Fletcher. Is that all I am, hmm? A wild animal for you to hunt?”

“Oh, my pretty darling, of course not.” Henry took Robin’s hand, pressing it against his lips. Then his smile grew with devilish mischief. “Though _perhaps_ I might put you in a cage. A little robin of my own.”

Her eyes widened slightly at the tease. “That sounds awfully… committed.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” He mused. The devilish smile remained. “What’s the matter, you afraid?”

That did the trick. Her eyes flashed fierce. “Of course not!” She shook her head, then raised her chin high. “ _I_ am fearless!”

“Is that so?” Robin nodded assuredly. Henry pushed it further. “So you’re not afraid of being caged up with a hunter? I can be dangerous, you know. All my guns, my knives.” 

She answered curtly. “I’m not scared of you.”

Henry had been planning on a different strategy for this hunt, but her cling to bravery was oddly… _exciting._ How far does it go, he wondered? “Let’s put that to the test, shall we?” He stood up. His hand outstretched to her, holding a smile though Robin herself seemed confused. “Come on.”

She took his hand, standing at his side. Henry led her to a nearby tree, and had Robin lean back against it. “You’re not scared of me?”

“No.” Though sure in her answer, she did still appear confused by what he was planning.

“Alright then, close your eyes.” Her expression changed, thinking it a silly and odd request. “You’re not scared, right? So trust me on this.”

Robin giggled and closed her eyes. “Alright, then.”

Silently, Henry pulled a knife from his belt. His eyes drank her in again. The shallow breaths, the soft smile. He shouldn’t be doing this, but the thought of scaring her was a temptation he couldn’t resist. He brought the knife up to her, brushing it softly against her skin. Robin shuddered a breath, no doubt the cold metal catching her off guard. She said nothing, though. Henry then guided the knife across her collarbone. It twisted, the edge catching only slightly as it moved up her neck. She shivered, then something in her went rigid. She must know by now what it is. The knife followed from the ear to her chin. It departed, turning, he brought the sharp metal flush against the pulse of her neck. His own body moved flush against hers. His voice whispered in her ear. “Are you still not afraid of me?”

She fought the urge to nod, the knife still against her. “I’m not afraid.” 

It came out as barely a whisper. Still, he felt a rush from her answer, eager to push her further. The knife trailed down her neck, sharper than before. “Even now?” He asked.

“Yes.” She answered simply.

The knife went lower, fraying at the top of her dress. “And now?” He twisted the knife around her chest, its tip grazing across her nipple.

Robin moaned. 

Excitement surged through him. That moan cancelling all thought from his mind. Henry at once moved the knife aside. Taking her into his arms, he pressed his lips closed onto hers. His free hand pushed her deeper into the kiss, his tongue searching hers with aching fervor. This lust was like nothing he felt before. He pushed her roughly against the tree. Not caring if the knife was moved away from her. If anything, the thought of the knife carving into Robin’s flesh excited him more, pushing him to the brink. Feeling her writhe and moan against him, even then, Henry knew that this hunt is like nothing he’s experienced before; and that it won’t end after this day. No, from that moment Henry knew that this hunt would be enduring. He wanted his little robin. Wanted her carved up and moaning for him, and he was going to do everything in his power to keep her.


	20. Trace the Blood Upon the Hoof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mother Columbia hears the call of Cain's sin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason this got written as a narrative poem. I suppose that's appropriate in the perspective of a Great Spirit.  
> Also, this is essentially a merger of the Curses videos and Murder! Murder!

_ My children cry in tears of blood _

_ Their spirits shriek in anguish _

_ Their hearts have stopped before their time  _

_ And the guilty hands have gathered _

_ I wake to the summoning place _

_ Its foundations drenched with blood  _

_ Six sides as the Murderer’s Wheel _

_ An altar to the First Son _

_ I call, and the four winds gather _

_ Brothers North, East, South, and West _

_ Here, the brother’s sin shines bright _

_ By Curse shall it extinguish _

_ South tears the roots and tars the door  _

_ No more embraced by Mother’s earth _

_ The fathers’ earth comes at North’s call _

_ Their childrens’ sin traced upon them _

_ East casts the oil and the Book _

_ Their holy energies to purify _

_ By tooth and hood West blinds the beasts _

_ Those agents who Cain immortalized _

_ We call upon the trinity _

_ We call upon the just _

_ We call to seal the sinners’ fate _

_ And turn them into dust _

_ We trace the blood upon the hoof _

_ We trace the beasts of Cain _

_ We trace their souls to reunite  _

_ So they may live again _

_ We bind these souls who dwell inside  _

_ We bind these lives who kill _

_ No matter how they spit and thrash _

_ We bind them to our will _

_ You took upon the slaughter stone _

_ Now this we shall proclaim _

_ To murder is the Brother’s sin _

_ And Murder be thy name! _

_ Murder be thy name!  _

_ Out! Out! _

_ Murder be thy name! _


	21. A Body on the Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the witness saw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW if you have homophobic parents.

Jamie Sanders clenched nervously at the hem of his shirt. He was standing on the doorstep of the Miller’s home, looking at the doorknob as if it were a venomous snake. To his side stood Max Miller, his best friend and the love of his life. Catching Jamie’s nervousness, Max took his hand in his. “You alright?” He asked.

“We shouldn’t do this.” Jamie whispered harshly. “You see how they are at church. They’re not going to understand!”

“It’s alright.” Max assured him. “The Lord teaches us love, that we are made in his image. If he didn’t want us to love as we do, he wouldn’t have made us this way.” His fingers brushed through Jamie’s hair, then leaned in close to kiss him tenderly. Their foreheads rested briefly on one another's, Max’s love and hope radiating into Jamie. “They already like you and treat you like a son. It won’t take much to bring that feeling closer to the truth.”

Jamie swallowed his nervousness and allowed himself to smile. “You’re right.” He breathed in, taking in Max’s calm and bravery, and kissed him once more. “We can do this.”

* * *

An hour later Jamie was left bound and bloody on the dining room floor. Max had been dragged away, upstairs, where his father was shouting and no doubt beating his beloved son to death. Jamie, meanwhile, was left to struggle in his binds. The rope was thick and scratchy. His wrists and ankles ached, but he couldn’t give up. Upstairs, Max was screaming, crying, he was so full of agony. What were they doing to him? At the next agonizing wail Jamie shut his eyes as if it could drown the sound away. He knew they shouldn’t have come. Knew it was dangerous. Why, oh why, didn’t he trust his instincts?!

Jamie urged himself upward. It was a struggle, but it was enough to see the top of the table, and a knife close enough to the edge. He bit down on the handle, pulling it down and bent so that his hands could take it. It felt like an age, getting the binds on his wrist to fray away. But soon they were free.

He risked a moment to breathe. In the floor above, Mr. Miller bellowed with rage. “Get that sodomizing devil’s spawn up here!” 

Panicking, Jamie got to work on the rope around his ankles. He worked furiously at them. In his rush, he didn’t see Mrs. Miller arrive. The woman flung herself over the knife, and it stabbed clean through Jamie’s foot. He howled in pain. Grappling, he fought off Mrs. Miller. They tumbled, Mrs. Miller clawing to pull out the knife, but Jamie took the advantage, knocking her down. In the struggle the blade dislodged. Taking no chances and fighting through the pain, Jamie cut the final strands of ropes and half-raced, half-hobbled to the door. He ran out into the street, tripping, stumbling, heading to any place that might offer shelter. 

It took little time to find a darkened window. The florist’s shop -closed for the night- with a window left open so that the plants could solace in a breeze. Jamie forced the window wide, pushing himself through. He quickly closed it again, drawing the drapes closed and pressed himself against the wall. He waited with bated breath as Mrs. Miller ran past the shop. Excruciating minutes passed by, Jamie having no idea when she would find him, or even, hopefully, if she would give up.

* * *

When the adrenaline crashed around him, Jamie cried, curled into his arms. He didn’t know when he fell asleep, he only knew that it bore him no dreams. When he woke, he stole a cloak from the florist’s closet and escaped from the building. The journey was slow going. In that slowness, he heard the talk of the town. 

_The pastor found a body on the steps of the chapel!_ They whispered. _The body was bruised and broken... a sack for a head; and the hand… oh, I wouldn’t speak of it in polite company, young miss… Did you hear?... a cross was nailed into the hand! ...Who was it? ...Who would do such a thing? ...Mr. Miller is helping the pastor with the body. Such a sweet man. I hear his son’s come for a visit..._

Jamie’s eyes burned with tears. The pain in his heart and his body was near unbearable. Still, he needed to walk. Needed to escape. If anyone spotted him, he knew what would happen. Knew what these _noble_ people of the parish would do to someone like him. 

To someone like Max.

So he buried the pain in his heart. Buried it deep. Deep as the hole Max would no doubt be laid to rest in, and marched on to the horizon.


	22. Sweet Rosalie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What makes Rosalie so sweet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When in doubt: write smut.

***PINNT!***

Elmer opened his eyes. Blinking and rubbing them, he looked across the room. He could have sworn he heard something.

***PINNT!***

There it is again! It was coming from the window. He got out of bed and opened the window. Looking out in the moonlight, he saw a face grinning from a perch in the tree. The prettiest face he ever did see.

“Hiya, Elmer.”

“Rosalie!” He hushed with excitement. “What you doin’ here? Thought your pa said not to come ‘round here no more?”

“Don’t you worry what my pa says no more.” She smiled, her teeth showing proud and wild. “I’m my own woman. Ain’t gonna let no man tell me what to do. Now let me in, you, so I can kiss you!”

“Yes, Ma’am!” He saluted, his own grin stretching wide across his face. He stumbled for a bit, searching in the dark for his granddaddy’s old cane. Once he did, he went back and stretched it out of the window. Rosalie took hold of the curve, allowing Elmer to pull her inside. 

No sooner did she get her two feet on the floor that the two of them kissed passionately. Hands grasped every curve of flesh, trailing along their bodies. His hand went up to push her face close. Fingers combing through her hair. Then came a sharp sting and he pulled away with a shout.

“What you doin’, Elmer?!” Rosalie asked, annoyed at the sudden stop.

“My hand...” He could feel a bump starting to grow along his index finger. It hurt, but he was mostly confused. Looking up at his Rosalie, he couldn’t help but notice something fly away from her head and out the window. Elmer chuckled at the strangeness of it. “One of the hornets got caught in your hair.”

“That’s all?” Rosalie asked. 

“Aye. It stings a little, but that’s all.”

Rosalie stepped in closer, taking his hand in hers. “Aww, and it’s hurting you, baby?” She cooed. “Should I be jealous?”

Elmer tittered at the idea. “Course not. Ain’t no one can hurt me like you, Rosalie.”

“I should hope not.” She pulled his hand in closer, wrapped her lips around his finger and began to suck. Her warm tongue caressed the sting. The feel of her wet sweetness made him moan. Then came sharpness, pain, as her teeth bit down on the finger. He cried out, moaning louder. 

“Oh, Rosalie!” He gasped. 

She popped his finger out of her mouth, then pushed him down onto his knees. “Did you like that?” She purred.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He whimpered, enraptured. 

“Do you want me to hurt you more?”

“Please!” He begged.

“You’ll have to earn it first.” Her hand patted down against her dress, right between her legs. 

Elmer nodded, knowing exactly what his lady wanted. “Right away, Ma’am.” He moved in closer, hands grabbing the dress to pull it up. There was wetness, he felt. Wetness on the dress. He looked down at it. There were some dark splashes against the pale dress. “What’s that?”

“Hmm?” Her hips curved, and she looked down at the splotches. “Made a mess while in the kitchen with Pa. We should burn it. It’s gonna stain anyways. I don’t need no clothes when I’m here with you, right?”

“Of course not!” He shuddered a breath. The thought of Rosalie walking about the house naked had him aching to burst! 

Elmer moved quickly to take the dress off of her, but Rosalie grabbed him hard by the hair. “What you think you’re doing?!”

“Taking it off. You said you don’t need it, righ-yow!”

“Did I give you permission?” She asked sternly.

“...no, Ma’am.”

“You heard me, Elmer. Ain’t no man tellin’ me what to do. So you best wait for permission, you hear?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He answered meekly. “Sorry, Ma’am. I’ll only ever do what you say. I swear it!”

“Now that’s better.” She cooed warmly. “Now you go earn your keep, Elmer, or you’ll be getting no hurtin’ tonight.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He answered in relief. He went back on his knees, pushing himself under the dress -the splash ignored completely- and pressed himself against her underclothes. Tongue lapping against fabric, fingers grasped to pull the fabric away so that he can taste her skin. Above him, Rosalie moaned, her pleasure vibrating and liquifying around him. He burrowed in deeper, pleasing his lady until she gushed around him. He reveled as she filled his mouth, his tongue twisting and lapping for more. He’ll do anything his lady desires. Take every pain, every pleasure, if it means he can have more of her. For no girl ever tasted so sweet as his Rosalie.


	23. The Black Wagon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting a show on the road!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's prompt 23 on day 26, so this chapter is shorter than it could be.

Standing on the frost-tipped grounds of the Killing Place, Mister Storm felt both dubious and amused as he watched the scene before him unfold. “You know, Mister Tender, I’ve had my share of crazy ideas, but I think yours have reached a new height.”

Mister Tender did not look in the man’s direction. His focus remained on the mares, guiding their bands to be lined up to the Black Wagon’s tug. “I don’t see the problem. We’re aiming for authenticity for the show, aren’t we?”

“For stories, sure. Though I wonder how the mares feel about being taken on a joyride?”

Tender clipped the last one in and dusted off his hands. “Don’t worry. The mares and I have an understanding.” He patted one of the mares twice on the neck to prove his point. …Only to immediately jumped back as the mare nipped sharply at him, her eyes glowing a hellish red and her neigh equally as unnatural. 

Storm laughed loudly at the scrambled escape. “Sure you do, Mister Tender.”

“Shut up!” Tender grumbled. He then pointed a warning finger at the mare. “Behave!” 

It snorted in reply. 

Tender waved off the protest. He went around the mares and jumped onto the driver’s seat. Settling in, he adjusted his coat and put on a dark, wide-brimmed hat to hide his face. Once settled, he called out to Storm. “We’ll probably only get one shot at this!”  _ Before we get caught, _ went unsaid. “Keep that camera steady!”

“Easy done!” Storm called back. He went over to the camera dolly they rigged up earlier. He adjusted the camera and switches so that everything was lined up perfectly. When ready, he gave a thumbs up, then prepped a clapperboard for the camera. “Black Wagon theme run, take one!”


	24. Barley, Liberty, and Blood!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Readers, what’s hexed and then halved on a spree,  
> And broken through chains to run about free,  
> Searching for bars in drunk revelry?  
> How close? A little more.

_ Mid-August, 1816  _

The perimeter of the public house was deserted. Usual patrons and passersby scurried fast and far from the place. Those that didn’t now littered the street in trails of blood-red snow. 

Inside, oh, inside was far worse. The floor was covered in puddles of beer and piss and blood. Walls were cracked and bodies were broken, all pinned with knives and broken glass. Though bodies moaned and tables groaned, it was the roaring laughter that rang above all others. 

“Did you see that man’s face?” Levi cackled. “He was so sure he’d be out that door and then WHAM! Got him clean ‘cross his noggin! Heh! And then- HA- then I pissed on his face! Oh, you shoulda seen him sputterin’ and cryin’ and chokin’ on the drink!”

Dan swayed in his seat, a light chuckle shaking him as he clutched his drink. “You’re crazy, Levi.”

“Heh! Yep! That’s what they call me, alright! Crazy Boy Levi. You don’t get a name like that with your fists, son. You gotta go wiiIIILLlllddD -give ‘em something to talk about!”

“If they’re alive to talk about it.” Dan pointed out.

“Ha! Well, not all of them. That’s why you leave some alive. Gotta have your witnesses and storytellers, you see?”

Dan chuckled, his mind too drunk to really let it all settle in. “I’ll take your word for it, old man.” He lifted his glass to toast. “To stories told!” Their glasses clinked, and both men drank in deep. 

Over at the bar, Madison stumbled across the way, reaching over for a powder horn. He got his hand around it, but his body slipped, falling to the floor. The man laughed as he laid there. “My leg don’t work!” He shouted, then laughed hysterically at the feel of it all. He brought the powder horn to his lips and tilted it back for a drink. It took him a few moments to notice nothing coming out. The powder horn was empty, bone dry. He tossed it away, semi-annoyed, then grasped the world around him until he eventually hoisted himself up on the counter.

“You three -er, four!” He muttered at Dan and Levi. “We oughta find someplace new. This place ain’t got no booze no more!”

“That’s cuz you drank it all!” Dan laughed loudly. 

Levi crackled alongside him. “We drank ‘em so bad, I’ll bet you there’s some babe cryin’ cuz his momma’s tits have gone and shriveled up!”

All three of them cracked up at the thought.

Madison leaned heavily onto the counter, inhaling deeply then released a happy groan. “You boys know what? This is everything. This- this is what life’s about! It ain’t all that hard workin’ and preachin’ and goodliness. No, that’s not what matters. You know what really matters?”

Madison’s eyes wandered upwards. He locked his sights on a bison head mounted onto the wall. He grinned, chuckling, then smacked his hands together happily. “See, this guy knows what I’m talking about!” He pointed at the bison. “That’s what life’s all about! And we gotta keep living it, you know?” He stumbled his way around the counter, his left leg dragging all the while. “This town’s gotta have another bar around here somewhere. What d'you say we go find it?”

“Sure, there’s killin’ in me yet.” Levi yanked a knife out of the table then got up out of his seat, beckoning Dan to follow. “Come on up, you tall bastard, we got some bars to bleed!”


	25. Eleanor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Storm and Tender continue to muse over song ideas

“Alright, cheers over!” Tender planted his notes on the table. The ruffling of sheet music permeated the studio.

“You sure?” Storm teased, not at all meaning it.

“I have heard enough surf rock to tide me over for the next decade. _The Devil In Camp_ is written. It’s done. And I don’t trust you with the Eddys!”

Storm put a hand over his heart with a faux air of scandalous outrage. “So you can take the surf and the tides, but I can’t take the eddies? Now that’s just selfish, Mister Tender!” 

It took a few seconds, but the two men broke down laughing. Tender attempted to talk, but Storm’s laughter kept causing him to snigger. “Okay- okay- but seriously-” They laughed again. He flung an eraser at Storm. “Be serious!” He ordered, though still grinning all the while. “We had your cheery opening number, there’s no way we can keep the Eddys’ story as a love song, now!” 

Storm grinned at the man’s expense. “Too much?” 

“Absolutely!” Tender shot back with his own tease. “What kind of spook-show would we be if all of our stories have happy melodies?”

“True...” Storm rocked onto the back legs of his chair, musing over the possibilities. “We could always make it one-sided? Eleanor praying for her husband’s safe journey? William finding out about her fate?”

“The second one’s better. It ends in tragedy.”

Storm hummed in agreement. “Okay. So… you go on an expedition and risk your life to save others. Then you return on the rescue mission to find out that your wife is dead, and that the Devil has eaten her. In anger, you vow revenge-”

“Hold on-” Tender’s finger tapped at the desk, his mind pensive. “He goes to rescue his wife from the Devil, but it ends in failure… I know this story.” As Tender thought on, Storm looked to him curiously. Obviously the man wasn’t being literal, but he didn’t know what Tender was getting at. A moment later, Tender snapped his fingers. “Orpheus!” 

“Orpheus?”

“It’s Greek Mythology. The story of Orpheus and Eurydice.” He looked about the room to find a reference, only to sigh in disappointment. “We’ll have to go to the library to get a book on it; but it’s a great parallel. Definitely something we can work with.”

“Sure. I could use an excuse to stretch my legs.” Storm pushed out of his chair and gestured for Tender to lead the way. “So, a Greek tragedy sandwiched between two upbeat songs. This is shaping up to be an interesting television show.”

Tender paused mid-stride towards the door. “Two?” Storm didn’t answer. Instead he left Tender behind as he continued out into the hallway. “Wait, what do you mean by two?!”


	26. Banished Horseman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't think of a story, so I wrote a poem.

Snide to the Snyder with the whipping hand

Who raged and tangled with my wagon band

You beat at my oxen, your dared harm my wife

So I’ll never mourn how I used that knife

Damned be the Devil with the vile tongue

Who sought for a rope that I may be hung

You claim me killer but here is the test

Where lays old Hardkoop once you clear his nest?

Merciful Margret, oh my heart and love

Your pleas swayed the train as salvation’s dove

Weep not when I go, for I promise this

One day we will share sweet reunion’s kiss

Virtuous be my bold Virginia

Your cunning unlike cruel Lavinia

Not bound in blood, you are my daughter, still

Your gifts a boon on this journey uphill

Branded and banished, yes those I may be

But when your food runs short it will be me

To break through your snow and feral damnation

Yes, by me will you find Spring’s salvation


	27. Mother Columbia's Wrath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Mother Columbia's wrath against the Six Mile Inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one-shot takes ideas from both chapter 16 and the story Night On The New Continent.

When the Blood Travelers Storm and Tender returned to the Killing Place, they were an absolute wreck. Clothes torn, hair disheveled, bodies bloodied, anyone who came upon them stood back with alarm and confusion. The Blood Travelers, too, had their own apprehensions to worry about. They ignored the others and moved silently to the elevator. As it climbed to the top floor they took heavy breaths, knowing that their next course of action will be a difficult one. 

Unfortunately, before they could walk up to Cain’s door, they were intercepted by the Interrogator. It took only a brief assessment before they were corralled back down to the breaking room. Once there, the two men explained their current state. As their story neared its conclusion, the Interrogator pinched her eyes closed and had her index fingers pressed against her forehead.

“Let me see if I understand this correctly. The place was going through an exorcism. Another Blood Traveler not only sacrificed herself but _warned you_ that it was coming back and what that would mean for you …yet you _didn’t_ run the second it did?”

Both Storm and Tender looked down sheepishly at the question. Both of them mixed with levels of shame of the answer and guilt over the ambiguous fate of the third Traveler.

A slam on the table by the Interrogator caused both men to jump. “WELL?” She demanded.

“That’s what happened.” Storm answered.

 _“Why?”_

They looked at each other briefly. Neither quite sure of a full answer to give. 

“At first we didn’t notice.” Tender conceded. “...We were drunk and didn’t realize the spirits came back until Lavinia shot at them.”

The Interrogator clicked her tongue once. “The woman centered at the exorcism noticed it before you did?”

“Yes.” He admitted. “Then one of the patrons tried to escape, but something caused the door to be blacked-out and blocked.” He paused a moment, but the Interrogator gestured for him to continue. “We were then caught off guard by seeing everyone start to disintegrate that we didn’t move to escape, and then it reached us, and we… it didn’t seem to affect us, but that’s when we made a break for it.”

The Interrogator snorted at that. “But obviously it _did_ affect you.”

“Yes. I realize that now.”

The woman huffed a sigh, fingers massaging her temples in an uncharacteristic fashion. “What am I going to do with you?”

Storm used the question to interject. “Well we should go see Cain, now. Get this all fixed.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No, you can’t, because Cain isn’t here! Which means you two idiots are going to have to stay here until they get back! And that can take years! Decades, even!”

“Years?” They looked at each other in mild alarm. “I mean, sure we have to stay to write out the stories; but we have to keep working, don’t we?”

“What, as _mortals?_ ” She asked incredulously. “Absolutely not! Until Cain can fix... _this-_ ” she gestured at their bloodied state, “-you two are a liability! You can’t possibly be trusted out in the world being like this.”

“Hold on. If Cain doesn’t come back, we’ll age!” Storm realized.

“That’s how mortality works.” The Interrogator noted dully.

“No, no, no. We have to call Cain back. We can’t stay like this!”

“Well you should have thought of that before you dallied your way out of an exorcism!” She pushed out of the chair, muttering “Children! Honestly!” before slamming the door on her way out.

The two men sat still. The implications from everything they endured in 1816 crescendoing over them. They are mortal, now. Human, ever changing. Everything they worked to become, undone. And any hope for salvation lay in a force that, unlike their present state, exists beyond the constraints of time. 

“We are so fucked!”


	28. A Killer Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title: How close until I lose my sanity?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a story. It's a rant against the Interludes in The Killing Place album. There are a lot of ways to describe these interludes: infuriatingly genius, lyrically vague, beautifully composed, a cocktease of lore. It's one of those things that is so smart that it makes you angry that someone would go out of their way to write it like this, yet you can't help but love it, still. 
> 
> So, yeah... I've been looking forward to writing this chapter all week!

Is this a countdown? Oh, no, I was wrong,

The numbers were anagrams here all along,

Who the fuck hides this inside of a song?

How close? A little more.

Did they get this idea off Davy Jones?

“Take on my Mark or decay into bones.”

This seduction has naught to do with hormones!

How close? A little more.

This song is cool but I don’t understand,

You credit a name, was there more to this planned?

Will this woman’s lore have a chance to expand?

How close? A little more.

Left twenty-one and right twenty-six,

Do they hide in these codes to annoy us for kicks?

I’d rather my head be shoved into some bricks!

How close? A little more.

Checkout is clearest, yet mysteries do stay,

Between locks and ledgers their meanings are gray,

Definitions are broad and they lead me astray!

How close? A little more.

Last is the query I cannot avoid,

“Why room-numbered titles?” I scream to the void,

These unanswered questions leave my brain destroyed.

How close? Already there!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saar, Terrance, if you ever read this, please -for the love of god- explain what the Transformation lyrics mean!


	29. Follow the Scarlet Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> O, Mother Columbia, take us in your breast!

“YAAHOOOO!”

Three horses galloped fast on the trail, riding hard towards the setting sun. After a tough bend, their path straightened. One of the three riders checked over his shoulder at the trail behind them. 

“You think we lost ‘em?” Tall Dan shouted through the wind.

Madison called back in answer. “I don’t know, but we ain’t slowing to find out!” With a grin, he urged his stolen horse onward.

The sun faded. A low cloud on the horizon obscuring it from view. Still, they had some time to run before the Sheriff’s men could take an advantage in the dark. Seeing another fork in the road, they veered due West, hoping that a last spark of daylight would blind anyone stupid enough to keep chase. 

Eventually the sun dipped low, and the three slowed to a halt near a stream. They got the horses watered, Levi keeping watch in case the men neared, and the others slowly made camp for the night. Drawing sticks, Tall Dan ended up with first watch for the night. So he waited up through the cold while the other two went to sleep. 

Sleeping on a frigid forest floor brings no comfort to any man. So, naturally, when a light shined in his eyes, Madison was quick to wake up. “Dan,” he gruffed through bleary eyes, “the fuck did I tell you about lighting a fire!”

“That’s no fire.” Dan’s voice seemed distant... and afraid. 

Sparked with caution, Madison woke past the brain fog and looked over at the man. Tall Dan was standing over at his post, eyes fixed to the sky. Madison followed the look upwards and saw a curious sight. A blazing, scarlet star was shooting across the sky. It’s trail bled like a slit throat against the black, growing as it came closer. “Levi. Hey, Levi!” He hit the other man awake. “Get a look at this!”

It blazed closer, still. It shot past them, tearing through trees and then thundered into the earth. “Well I’ll be…” Madison muttered.

At his side, Levi jumped upright and started running in the direction the star had gone. “Hey, wait up!” Dan called, running after the man. Madison, too, took chase. Curiosity and intrigue pressing him forward as he went after the others. It was easy enough to follow, thanks to the moonlight, but he found himself slowing as he heard Levi talking loudly. He saw Dan break through a clearing, and followed soon after. He found Levi standing in front of some smoke rising from the earth, talking as if to a person. A few steps forward, and Madison found the reason why. 

A woman stood between Levi and the fallen star. Her face was stoic and proud, decorated in some manner of paint, and feathers dangling off her ears. Her hair was a queer thing, too, shaved at the sides and the rest combed up like a fan. Some injun woman, then, Madison decided. Seems Levi was trying to chat her up, or whatever you would call his method of communicating with the opposite sex.

The wind gusted around them, sending the smoke to swirl around the woman. The sight reminded Madison of their reason for being there. The fallen star. He walked over in their direction, but Tall Dan held up his arm, stopping him. 

“We ain’t alone.” He murmured.

Madison took the warning and looked about the clearing. Four men stood near, surrounding them. He couldn’t quite make them out in the moonlight, but he could tell that they aren’t the Sheriff’s men.

“If you want a fight, you boys came looking in the right place.” He grinned, pulling a knife out from his belt. 

The men said nothing. Neither did the woman -come to think of it- no matter how much Levi had yammered away. She did move, though, lifting something small between two fingers high into the air. It must’ve been a signal, as the four men moved in unison. Their arms outstretched towards one another, combined -how, he wondered, as their bodies seemingly towered over them as though giants stood where men once were- and they began to sing. No, sing wasn’t the word. Their voices rose, something melodic yet inhuman. Spoken, yet wordless. Intangible. It was as though the wind itself cried out without a tongue or lips to speak. 

Madison and Dan stiffened the grip on their knives. The urge to fight was stilted, faltering, as though any movement could cause them to be swept up in the malevolent wind. In the corner of his eye, he found Levi had nerve left to move. Yet that movement was strange. Levi seemed less worried of the giants and more concerned with his left arm. He was transfixed by it, his fingers tracing some unknown shape along the forearm. What it was, Madison couldn’t say. The urge to check his own arm was halted, still, by the queer call that blew on the wind. 

A tingling suddenly overcame his senses. His arm, his hand, his fingers, his shoulder, it was coming from there! He gained nerve at last to look down to the arm. Yet no arm was there, only dust. He panicked, looking further, his collar vanishing in the dust. He turned fast to Dan, crying out in alarm; but Dan, too, was naught but an arm and legs. Madison looked over to Levi, the man cackling as he drifted away. Madison urged himself to scream, to beg, to live; but all that remained was dust.


	30. A Gun and a Lamp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Landrum Murphy brought what he needed, but is it enough?

_January 29th, 1847_

When John announced he was to hunt for game, his mother had begged him to stay. “It’s too cold, too dangerous out there!” She warned. 

But John refused to stay. “Sarah and Lemuel have gone for help. You and the others are starving. I’m the man of the family. I can’t let you starve if I can do something about it.”

It took time, but his mother relented. She helped him pack what little he could carry. Scraps of dried meat, a flask of water, warm clothes, a gun and a lamp. “Be careful, John.” She hugged him tight, a warm tickle of tears pressed against his cheek.

“I will. I’ll be back soon, and we’ll have a feast before you know it!” He smiled, hopeful. Given time to bid his younger brothers goodbye, John headed out into the snow.

He trekked for hours. The snows piled deeper than his head. Still, he refused to give in, crawling over the snow so as not to sink. The first day was without success. On the second, he managed to catch a lone squirrel. On the third day, a blizzard arrived.

John saw the blizzard coming, its distant snow already taking half the sky. He knew, if caught in it, he’d be buried under the snow, and his family will be left to starve. So John turned back, determined to reach camp before the snow could overtake him. It came fast, though. Too fast. John grew blinded by the snow, unable to find his way back. 

A strange gust called through the wind. He could hardly care to hear, though, willing himself to press forward. The gust came again, louder this time. It sounded lower than wind. Almost human. It came again. “Can you hear me?” 

John struggled his eyes to open, and lifted his lamp outward. A dark shadow stood mere feet from him. He must be near one of the camps, John realized. Though if it was the Donner’s camp or the cabins, he couldn’t be sure. “Who are you?” He called. 

He was uncertain if the shadow heard him, because he called back without answer. “Come on!” The man beckoned him. “-over here!”

The man turned to walk on and John followed after him. He couldn’t see anything but the vague shadow leading him. Eventually they came upon something, _The Donner’s tent,_ he guessed, and stepped inside. John made quick work brushing the snow off his person. “Thank you, sir. I’d have died out there if it wasn’t for you.”

“You’re welcome.” A Germanic voice replied. “Can’t have you dying all the way out there, now, can we?”

John’s heart stilled at the voice. Almost instinctively his hand went to the gun at his side as he looked up at the man who led him here. A chill of fear swept over him as he realized the graveness of his error.

He’s not Donner. It’s Keseberg!


	31. The Mark of Cain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The transformation is complete, and all stand ready, but the Mark comes in an unexpected way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I did it! Thirty-one short stories for the month of October. I'm proud that this is done and excited to share them with you!

The Subjects were summoned to the uppermost floor of the Killing Place. They trudged into the room, exhausted, yet resolute. Their numbers had dwindled during the selection process. It began with thirty souls, eager or wary at the promise offered. Then the trials began. One by one souls died or gave in as their tasks intensified. By the night previous only a dozen souls remained. By this morning, however, only seven were summoned here. The rest no doubt have been sent back to their times.

Back to their deaths.

On a raised dais stood Cain, the biblical figure and cautionary tale of their Sunday childhoods. Cain stood ever watchful, regarding each of them with eyes that glinted some dark amusement. Though months had the Subjects endured life at the Killing Place, last night was the first time any of them had met Cain. It was their final task, their final interview. Each had their turn, each forbidden to speak of what transpired. Whatever had occurred behind those closed doors, only those seven had done something to win Cain’s approval. And with that approval won, the time has come to seal their fate.

At the foot of the dais, the Clerk stood ready with her ledger. “When I call on your number, you will approach the dais to receive your Mark and name. Number Eight!”

And so the ceremony began. One by one the Subjects approached the dais. Kneeling on one knee, they offered their services to Cain; to serve history and time and pay tribute to Cain’s sin; whether this immortal mark is a gift or a curse, they swore onto Cain their eternal servitude, one that can only be broken should the gift be relinquished by Cain’s hand. The pledges spoken, Cain would offer their own words to the Subjects. Words of meaning and purpose, that which will brand their identity as Blood Travelers, just as the Mark will brand their arms forever.

Five numbers were called, and five subjects were named. The Clerk cleared her throat and spoke again. “Right, Twenty-Six; Left, Twenty-One.”

The two remaining men shifted in confusion. Their eyes moved between the dais and each other, nonplussed about how to proceed. Cain watched their hesitancy, face affixed with a cunning smile; and they realized that, while unorthodox, the instruction had been clear. They walked forward to the dais. Twenty-Six knelt off-center before Cain. Twenty-One followed suit, kneeling on the man’s left. 

Their part in the ceremony began. The two men said their vows at the same time. As first the vows came disjointed and halting. Though soon they caught on to each other’s rhythms, synchronizing their words until they completed it as one. 

“Twenty-One, Twenty-Six,” Cain spoke, “such _unique_ souls to have walked these halls. Twenty-One, ever chasing lightning, you are a storm that seeks the daring and adventure so key to Our tales. Twenty-Six, so driven by a muddy sense of duty that lies between Our orders and the tender foundations of your heart. Apart, your journeys will be a struggle. My gift to you, squandered. Yet think of yourselves in your vows, blended, stronger than the individual. Together, I see the potential for great things.” With magic unknown to the men, a light connected both of their left forearms to Cain’s index finger. Where, before, Cain had carved the Mark directly onto the other Subjects, this time they wrote into the air. The light from Cain's finger carved the Mark into their arms in unison, no doubt uniting their immortality and blending them as equals in their service under Cain. 

“Arise, Mister Storm, Mister Tender, Blood Travelers of Cain!” 

They stood as one, heads bowing once to Cain. The immortal’s face beamed at the two, moreso as they joined the other five. They stood in a line as the ceremony reached completion. 

The last act to be done was the Clerk approaching each of them in the line. Now that they are true Blood Travelers, their work is to begin. She gave letters to each of them, their assignments and instructions written down. The first five got their assignments and left the room. As the Clerk offered the letter to Storm and Tender, Cain approached them, as well. “A parting gift, for your travels.” She offered a box to the anointed Mister Tender, which he opened to find what appeared to be a six-pointed compass. Confused though he was, he only gave it one cursory glance before returning his attention to Cain as they continued to speak. “Follow the compass, head West to Corydon.”

“And then?” He asked.

In a most unusual of chances, Cain winked at him. “And then await further instructions.”

Though perplexed by the oddity of the scenario, Tender and Storm left the room to go on their first mission. They packed their bags and provisions, and wrangled a wagon and horses for their travels. 

“This is it.” Tender spoke.

“Hard to believe it.” Storm answered. “But we’ve finally made it, Twenty-ah- I mean, Mister Tender.”

Tender chuckled lightly. “This is going to take some getting used to, Mister Storm.” He admitted as he climbed onto one side of the driver’s seat.

“True, but it’s a good change, all in all.” Storm leapt onto the other side and hollered with excitement. “This is it! Ready or not, world, here we come!” He snapped at the reins, starting the horses off, driving past the gates and off towards their futures as Blood Travelers, eternal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After writing Chapter 10 I came to a hilarious conclusion about this version's Storm and Tender. In this world Tender skirts into being Lawful Good, while Storm edges into Chaotic Evil. Because of this, Cain decides that these two need to work together and balance their energies so as to not fuck up on the job! 
> 
> Once again, thank you so much for reading these stories. It's been a lot of fun!


End file.
